Though cradled in the slow rhythm of the dream, lulled by this beauty of a summer's night, heavy with the scent of flowers, the silence broken only by a rippling fountain, the darkness illuminated by a world of radiant blossoms, Vanamee could not forget the tragedy of the Other; that terror of many years ago,--that prowler of the night, that strange, fearful figure with the unseen face, swooping in there from out the darkness, gone in an instant, yet leaving behind the trail and trace of death and of pollution.
Never had Vanamee seen this more clearly than when leaving Presley on the stock range of Los Muertos, he had come across to the Mission garden by way of the Quien Sabe ranch.
It was the same night in which Annixter out-watched the stars, coming, at last, to himself.
As the hours passed, the two men, far apart, ignoring each other, waited for the Manifestation,--Annixter on the ranch, Vanamee in the garden.
Prone upon his face, under the pear trees, his forehead buried in the hollow of his arm, Vanamee lay motionless.

For the last time, raising his head, he sent his voiceless cry out into the night across the multi-coloured levels of the little valley, calling upon the miracle, summoning the darkness to give Angele back to him, resigning himself to the hallucination.

He bowed his head upon his arm again and waited.

The minutes passed.

The fountain dripped steadily.