That night Campaspe dreamed a curious dream. She found herself walking in her bare feet on a bed of oyster-shells, but the sharp edges made no impression on her tender soles. Presently, and inexplicably, she seemed to be lying in a nest of silken cushions, which stung her soft flesh like a thicket of nettles. Now a butterfly flew past her, and appeared to be beckoning her to follow. Rising, she ran after the butterfly through a great open doorway into a wide Moorish court, in the centre of which a blindfold, curly-headed Eros, carved in marble, appeared about to discharge an arrow aimed at no target. Her senses swerved in a curious state of transition: she touched Burgundy; she smelled purple; she heard vervain; she tasted space; she saw the chord of B flat minor.
A thick cloud settled down over the court, but through its veils she caught glimpses of shadows, approaching and receding. When she followed them, they glided back, and when they followed her, she ran away from them. The shadows were nude and wore masks. One of them, a woman, lifted her mask and Campaspe recognized Zimbule, Zimbule with a great green letter flaming on her breast. Campaspe raised her hand, her palm towards the vision, and it disappeared.
