Unconsciously, she took one step forward from the threshold, and the girl who had been from her very birth a troglodyte, stood in the ravishing glory of a southern night, lit by a perfect moon — not the moon of our northern clime, but the moon like silver glowing in a furnace — a moon one could see to be a globe — not far off, a mere flat disc on the face of the blue, but hanging down halfway, and looking as if one could see all round it by a mere bending of the neck.
‘It is my lamp,’ she said, and stood dumb with parted lips. She looked and felt as if she had been standing there in silent ecstasy from the beginning.
‘No, it is not my lamp,’ she said after a while; ‘it is the mother of all the lamps.’
And with that she fell on her knees, and spread out her hands to the moon.