There was another pause. The pause, however, was intentional. It was not vacuity of mind or absence of ideas that caused it. There
was another subject, an unfinished subject that each member of the
group was still considering. Only no one cared to begin about it
till at last, unable to resist the strain any longer, Palazov turned
to Khilkoff, who was saying he would take a "whisky-soda," as the
champagne was too sweet, and whispered something beneath his breath;
whereupon Khilkoff, forgetting his drink, glanced at his sister,
shrugged his shoulders, and made a curious grimace. "He's all right
now"--his reply was just audible--"he's with Plitzinger." He cocked his
head sidewise to indicate that the clicking of the billiard-balls still
was going on. The subject was out: all turned their heads; voices hummed and buzzed;
questions were asked and answered or half answered; eyebrows were
raised, shoulders shrugged, hands spread out expressively. There came
into the atmosphere a feeling of presentiment, of mystery, of things
half understood; primitive, buried instinct stirred a little, the kind
of racial dread of vague emotions that might gain the upper hand if
encouraged. They shrank from looking something in the face, while yet
this unwelcome influence drew closer round them all. They discussed
Binovitch and his astonishing performance. Pretty little Vera listened
with large and troubled eyes, though saying nothing. The Arab waiter
had put out the lights in the corridor, and only a solitary cluster
burned now above their heads, leaving their faces in shadow. In the
distance the clicking of the billiard-balls still continued. "It was not play; it was real," exclaimed Minski vehemently. "I can
catch wolves," he blurted; "but birds--ugh!--and human birds!" He was
half inarticulate. He had witnessed something he could not understand,
and it had touched instinctive terror in him. "It was the way he
leaped that put the wolf first into my mind, only it was not a wolf at
all." The others agreed and disagreed. "It was play at first, but it
was reality at the end," another whispered; "and it was no animal he
mimicked, but a bird, and a bird of prey at that!" Vera thrilled. In the Russian woman hides that touch of savagery which
loves to be caught, mastered, swept helplessly away, captured utterly
and deliciously by the one strong enough to do it thoroughly. She left
her chair and sat down beside an older woman in the party, who took
her arm quietly at once. Her little face wore a perplexed expression,
mournful, yet somehow wild. It was clear that Binovitch was not
indifferent to her. "It's become an _idée fixe_ with him," this older woman said. "The
bird idea lives in his mind. He lives it in his imagination. Ever
since that time at Edfu, when he pretended to worship the great stone
falcons outside the temple--the Horus figures--he's been full of it." She stopped. The way Binovitch had behaved at Edfu was better left
unmentioned at the moment, perhaps. A slight shiver ran round the
listening group, each one waiting for some one else to focus their
emotion, and so explain it by saying the convincing thing. Only no one
ventured. Then Vera abruptly gave a little jump. "Hark!" she exclaimed, in a staccato whisper, speaking for the first
time. She sat bolt upright. She was listening. "Hark!" she repeated. "There it is again, but nearer than before. It's coming closer. I
hear it." She trembled. Her voice, her manner, above all her great
staring eyes, startled everybody. No one spoke for several seconds; all
listened. The clicking of the billiard-balls had ceased. The halls and
corridors lay in darkness, and gloom was over the big hotel. Everybody
was in bed. "Hear what?" asked the older woman soothingly, yet with a perceptible
quaver in her voice, too. She was aware that the girl's arm shook upon
her own. "Do you not hear it, too?" the girl whispered. All listened without speaking. All watched her paling face. Something
wonderful, yet half terrible, seemed in the air about them. There was a
dull murmur, audible, faint, remote, its direction hard to tell. It had
come suddenly from nowhere. They shivered. That strange racial thrill
again passed into the group, unwelcome, unexplained. It was aboriginal;
it belonged to the unconscious primitive mind, half childish, half
terrifying. "_What_ do you hear?" her brother asked angrily--the irritable anger of
nervous fear. "When he came at me," she answered very low, "I heard it first. I hear
it now again. Listen! He's coming." And at that minute, out of the dark mouth of the corridor, emerged two
human figures, Plitzinger and Binovitch. Their game was over: they
were going up to bed. They passed the open door of the card-room. But Binovitch was being half dragged, half restrained, for he was
apparently attempting to run down the passage with flying, dancing
leaps. He bounded. It was like a huge bird trying to rise for flight,
while his companion kept him down by force upon the earth. As they
entered the strip of light, Plitzinger changed his own position,
placing himself swiftly between his companion and the group in the dark
corner of the room. He hurried Binovitch along as though he sheltered
him from view. They passed into the shadows down the passage. They
disappeared. And every one looked significantly, questioningly, at his
neighbour, though at first saying no word. It seemed that a curious
disturbance of the air had followed them audibly. Vera was the first to open her lips. "You heard it _then_," she said
breathlessly, her face whiter than the ceiling. "Damn!" exclaimed her brother furiously. "It was wind against the
outside walls--wind in the desert. The sand is driving." Vera looked at him. She shrank closer against the side of the older
woman, whose arm was tight about her. "It was _not_ wind," she whispered simply. She paused. All waited
uneasily for the completion of her sentence. They stared into her face
like peasants who expected a miracle. "Wings," she whispered. "It was the sound of enormous wings." *       *       *       *       *

And at four o'clock in the morning, when they all returned exhausted
from their excursion into the desert, little Binovitch was sleeping
soundly and peacefully in his bed. They passed his door on tiptoe. But he did not hear them. He was dreaming. His spirit was at Edfu,
experiencing with that ancient deity who was master of all flying life
those strange enjoyments upon which his own troubled human heart was
passionately set. Safe with that mighty falcon whose powers his lips
had scorned a few hours before, his soul, released in vivid dream, went
sweetly flying. It was amazing, it was gorgeous. He skimmed the Nile
at lightning speed. Dashing down headlong from the height of the great
Pyramid, he chased with faultless accuracy a little dove that sought
vainly to hide from his terrific pursuit beneath the palm trees.