"Rubbish," he said, and tried to catch her by the waist. "It's safer in the house--my room--or yours----" She broke off again. "There it is--don't you hear? It's a footstep!" Her face was whiter
than the moon. "I tell you it's the wind in the branches," he repeated gruffly. "Oh,
come on, _do_. We were just getting jolly together. There's nothing to
be afraid of. Can't you believe me?" He tried to pull her down upon his
knee again with force. His face wore an unpleasant expression that was
half leer, half grin. But the girl stood away from him. She continued to peer nervously about
her. She listened. "You give me the creeps," he exclaimed crossly, clawing at her waist
again with passionate eagerness that now betrayed exasperation. His
disappointment turned him coarse. The girl made a quick movement of escape, turning so as to look in
every direction. She gave a little scream. "That _was_ a step. Oh, oh, it's close beside us. I heard it. We're
being watched!" she cried in terror. She darted towards him, then
shrank back. He did not try to touch her this time. "Moonshine!" he growled. "You've spoilt my--spoilt our chance with your
silly nerves." But she did not hear him apparently. She stood there shivering as with
sudden cold. "There! I saw it again. I'm sure of it. Something went past me through
the air." And the man, still thinking only of his own pleasure frustrated, got
up heavily, something like anger in his eyes. "All right," he said
testily; "if you're going to make a fuss, we'd better go. The house
_is_ safer, possibly, as you say. You know my room. Come along!" Even
that risk he would not take. He loved her with his "soul." They crept stealthily out of the wood, the girl slightly in front of
him, casting frightened backward glances. Afraid, guilty, ashamed, with
an air as though they had been detected, they stole back towards the
garden and the house, and disappeared from view. And a wind rose suddenly with a rushing sound, poured through the wood
as though to cleanse it, swept out the artificial scent and trace of
shame, and brought back again the song, the laughter, and the happy
revels. It roared across the park, it shook the windows of the house,
then sank away as quickly as it came. The trees stood motionless again,
guarding their secret in the clean, sweet moonlight that held the world
in dream until the dawn stole up and sunshine took the earth with joy. III

THE WINGS OF HORUS


Binovitch had the bird in him somewhere: in his features, certainly,
with his piercing eye and hawk-like nose; in his movements, with
his quick way of flitting, hopping, darting; in the way he perched
on the edge of a chair; in the manner he pecked at his food; in his
twittering, high-pitched voice as well; and, above all, in his mind. He skimmed all subjects and picked their heart out neatly, as a bird
skims lawn or air to snatch its prey. He had the bird's-eye view of
everything. He loved birds and understood them instinctively; could
imitate their whistling notes with astonishing accuracy. Their one
quality he had not was poise and balance. He was a nervous little man;
he was neurasthenic. And he was in Egypt by doctor's orders. Such imaginative, unnecessary ideas he had! Such uncommon beliefs! "The old Egyptians," he said laughingly, yet with a touch of solemn
conviction in his manner, "were a great people. Their consciousness was
different from ours. The bird idea, for instance, conveyed a sense of
deity to them--of bird deity, that is: they had sacred birds--hawks,
ibis, and so forth--and worshipped them." And he put his tongue out as
though to say with challenge, "Ha, ha!" "They also worshipped cats and crocodiles and cows," grinned Palazov. Binovitch seemed to dart across the table at his adversary. His eyes
flashed; his nose pecked the air. Almost one could imagine the beating
of his angry wings. "Because everything alive," he half screamed, "was a symbol of some
spiritual power to them. Your mind is as literal as a dictionary and
as incoherent. Pages of ink without connected meaning! Verb always in
the infinitive! If you were an old Egyptian, you--you"--he flashed and
spluttered, his tongue shot out again, his keen eyes blazed--"you might
take all those words and spin them into a great interpretation of life,
a cosmic romance, as they did. Instead, you get the bitter, dead taste
of ink in your mouth, and spit it over us like that"--he made a quick
movement of his whole body as a bird that shakes itself--"in empty
phrases." Khilkoff ordered another bottle of champagne, while Vera, his sister,
said half nervously, "Let's go for a drive; it's moonlight." There
was enthusiasm at once. Another of the party called the head waiter
and told him to pack food and drink in baskets. It was only eleven
o'clock. They would drive out into the desert, have a meal at two in
the morning, tell stories, sing, and see the dawn. It was in one of those cosmopolitan hotels in Egypt which attract the
ordinary tourists as well as those who are doing a "cure," and all
these Russians were ill with one thing or another. All were ordered
out for their health, and all were the despair of their doctors. They
were as unmanageable as a bazaar and as incoherent. Excess and bed were
their routine. They lived, but none of them got better. Equally, none
of them got angry. They talked in this strange personal way without a
shred of malice or offence. The English, French, and Germans in the
hotel watched them with remote amazement, referring to them as "that
Russian lot." Their energy was elemental. They never stopped. They
merely disappeared when the pace became too fast, then reappeared again
after a day or two, and resumed their "living" as before. Binovitch,
despite his neurasthenia, was the life of the party. He was also a
special patient of Dr. Plitzinger, the famous psychiatrist, who took
a peculiar interest in his case. It was not surprising. Binovitch was
a man of unusual ability and of genuine, deep culture. But there was
something more about him that stimulated curiosity. There was this
striking originality. He said and did surprising things. "I could fly if I wanted to," he said once when the airmen came to
astonish the natives with their biplanes over the desert, "but without
all that machinery and noise. It's only a question of believing and
understanding----"

"Show us!" they cried. "Let's see you fly!" "He's got it! He's off again! One of his impossible moments." These occasions when Binovitch let himself go always proved wildly
entertaining. He said monstrously incredible things as though he
really did believe them. They loved his madness, for it gave them new
sensations. "It's only levitation, after all, this flying," he exclaimed, shooting
out his tongue between the words, as his habit was when excited; "and
what is levitation but a power of the air? None of you can hang an
orange in space for a second, with all your scientific knowledge; but
the moon is always levitated perfectly.