It is night—a moonlight night in the Orient—

The earth is flooded in mystic beauty—

Midnight songbirds in the trees.

And the Palace of the Sultan—great marble halls—fountains of running water—moonlight shining in.

Strange, weird music of the desert played by slaves.

It is the picturesque setting of a strange tale—a tale of inward struggle.

The Sultan—lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East—softened by the night's mysterious light.

Among flowers and heavily-scented perfumes.

His dancing girls have left—his bronzed face—framed in black hair—his dark eyes—wear a look, an expression of satisfied desire—Life holds nothing new for him—only the continuation of old pleasures.

At last a heavy portiÈre is lifted.

Perhaps you were expecting an oriental girl of dark beauty—a slave—

The girl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European—a Russian of noble birth.

Among the palms of the Orient—almost as a slave she sojourns in the palace of the Sultan.

Only one of many, a passionate love holds her there.

Ever following—pursuing, is the other self—the gentle nature, which understands neither passion nor envy. The self which still fears and loves—yet—has no courage for prayer. And the spirit of this gentle nature whispers to the dominant one—

Lift yourself up and come away—I will lead you far from the moonlight—the overpowering perfumes—into the bleak light of day—peace will find you.

No—the stillness of the night—the kisses of my Sultan content me. But soon the inner voice cried so loud—even the moonlight could not quiet it.

Pulling against the inner self—her heart must break.

The soft music of the slaves—once it had soothed her—but now—

It was the howling wind of a northern land—of Russia—or the pealing of a bell—There had been a chapel in the dark Zamok where her childhood had been spent.

The inner voice called Katherine—but could not yet overcome the blood which flowed in Katherine's veins—the blood of a favorite of a Czar.

Sometimes in the light of day the inner, other self of Katherine would overcome—would want to flee—but ever the mysticism of Oriental nights would draw out more strongly than before the tainted blood of the unfortunate.

Finally the Sultan grew disdainful—There were newer girls brought from Mecca, from the desert.

The great—the inevitable conflict with her inner self left her torn—haggard.

For days she hung between life and death—with no one to care, save an old colored slave.

Gone the mystic atmosphere of the Orient—the music of cymbals.

A provincial town in France—with the ill-lighted streets—and a steady down-pour of winter rain.

It is Christmas eve

Through the window Katherine has been watching a procession of people hastening to midnight Mass at the Cathedral. Women—dressed in the picturesque garb and coif of Brittany—men and children—What peace is theirs—they know of the Christ Child—of his Mother—and no streams of lowest passion—can cover their souls.

The Cathedral of Nantes has stood in its Gothic beauty for many centuries—has witnessed many scenes.

That night a soul struggled against the past.

A woman—she was alive—for she walked—moved. But within—she was numb.

She lay almost fainting on the steps of a side Altar—before the crÈche—

Her inner self was pleading—Katherine—live again!

Presently the Adeste Fidelis sounded—throbbed—filled the church

How beautiful—she murmured.

The memory of the Sultan rose and fell each time at the sight of the candles, the acolytes in prayer. A vision so fierce and lustful could not live in this sacred place.

My child—advised the old Priest—pray—pray always for forgiveness—for enlightenment—for guidance. One who seeks these things as fervently as you do always finds.