The Island of Regeneration | Page 9

sat down, leaning against the wall, her eyes bright with
dread, anticipation, and curiosity. She watched and waited, resolved, if
necessary, to remain awake the long night through.
Outside the man had stood motionless a long time after the final repulse.
The dusk had not yet melted into dark out there and he was easily
visible against the sky framed by the opening as a dim picture. She was
hardly aware of the intensity with which she watched him, and she was
greatly surprised when she saw him at last kneel down upon the sands.
She saw that the palms of his hands were pressed together in front of
him; that his head was bowed; that his attitude was that of prayer! He
was saying something. She could hear him without difficulty. She
could distinguish no words in the rude succession of sounds that
seemed to come from his lips, but her acute and quickened perception
seemed to recognize a nearer resemblance to articulate speech than
anything she had yet heard from him.
What was he doing? In a flash the woman realized that the man was
praying. The realization smote her like a blow, for this woman had long
since put away prayer. In her philosophy of life there was no place for
God; in her scheme of affairs the divine was un-imminent. And yet
alone on that island, in that darkness, despite her attempt to mock away
the consciousness, she was relieved at that sight.
The little ritual on the sand ended with the one word her pupil knew.
"Man!" he said, striking his breast again and staring upward toward the
heavens. "Man!" he cried, as if in his new consciousness he would fain
introduce himself to his Maker, the woman thought. His Maker! Her
lips writhed into a bitter smile that was half a sneer.

What would he do next? He rose to his feet and peered toward the door.
She grasped the scissors tighter and held her breath. But he had learned
his lesson. With indescribable relief she saw him turn aside and cast
himself down upon the sand, where he lay motionless before her. If she
had had any faith, she would have breathed "Thank God." As it was,
she was very glad.
She watched him a long time, speculating on the questions she had
asked him on the hill in the morning; who he was; what he was;
whence he came; where he had learned that babble of prayer; why he
was devoid of speech; what was the God to whom he prayed? She
would study those things. The problems fascinated her. The desolation
and loneliness of the island might have crushed her. Relieved from her
immediate apprehensions, the man delighted her. She would investigate
him, analyze him, synthesize him, teach him. She would mother him as
a woman a child. No such opportunity as was hers had ever presented
itself to a human being. Free, as she imagined herself, from inherited
prejudices, devoid of old superstitions, crammed with new learning,
illuminated with new light, abhorrent of narrow things, she fancied
herself well fitted for that strangely maternal and preceptive role in
which chance had placed her. She would play upon that mind, virgin to
her touch, if she might use a woman's word, until it ran in harmony
with her own. Alone upon that island, the rest of the world away, she
would find occupation, interest, inspiration, in that nascent man.
He lay so still and so quiet that presently she arose and tiptoed softly to
the entrance, where unseen she could look down upon him. The moon
rose back of the hill. Although he was in the shadow, there was still
refraction sufficient to enable her to see his face. He was asleep. The
quiet, dreamless, unvexed sleep of a healthy animal, she thought. Their
positions were reversed. He had watched her before when she was off
guard and asleep, with what dim-dumb, inchoate effort it might be to
comprehend, her. Now it was her turn. He took no disfavor in her mind
after her inspection. He was a bold, splendid piece of ... what? Clay.
She would put a soul in him, her soul. Her soul was the only thing she
knew. She forgot, or if she remembered it, disdained the ancient
concept that before the dust of the earth became alive, it had to be

impermeated with the breath not merely of man or woman, but of God.
She came back at last and sought her corner, disposed her limbs to rest
and kept through silent hours her lonely vigil. So long as he slept she
was safe. When he awakened, what then? So long as his mind slept, his
soul slept, his consciousness slept, she was safe, but when they, too,