a column in the chamber
that lies beyond them, looks on them from a little distance, their
attitude is like a summons to men to contend no more, to be still, to
enter into rest.

Come to this temple when you leave the hall of Seti. There you are in
a place of triumph. Scarlet, some say, is the color of a great note
sounded on a bugle. This hall is like a bugle-call of the past,
thrilling even now down all the ages with a triumph that is surely
greater than any other triumphs. It suggests blaze--blaze of scarlet,
blaze of bugle, blaze of glory, blaze of life and time, of ambition
and achievement. In these columns, in the putting up of them, dead men
sought to climb to sun and stars, limitless in desire, limitless in
industry, limitless in will. And at the tops of the columns blooms the
lotus, the symbol of rising. What a triumph in stone this hall was once,
what a triumph in stone its ruin is to-day! Perhaps, among temples, it
is the most wondrous thing in all Egypt, as it was, no doubt, the most
wondrous temple in the world; among temples I say, for the Sphinx is
of all the marvels of Egypt by far the most marvellous. The grandeur
of this hall almost moves one to tears, like the marching past of
conquerors, stirs the heart with leaping thrills at the capacities of
men. Through the thicket of columns, tall as forest trees, the intense
blue of the African sky stares down, and their great shadows lie along
the warm and sunlit ground. Listen! There are voices chanting. Men are
working here--working as men worked how many thousands of years ago. But
these are calling upon the Mohammedan's god as they slowly drag to
the appointed places the mighty blocks of stone. And it is to-day a
Frenchman who oversees them.

"Help! Help! Allah give us help!
Help! Help! Allah give us help!"

The dust flies up about their naked feet. Triumph and work; work
succeeded by the triumph all can see. I like to hear the workmen's
voices within the hall of Seti. I like to see the dust stirred by their
tramping feet.

And then I like to go once more to the little temple, to enter through
its defaced gateway, to stand alone in its silence between the rows of
statues with their arms folded upon their quiet breasts, to gaze into
the tender darkness beyond--the darkness that looks consecrated--to feel
that peace is more wonderful than triumph, that the end of things is
peace.

Triumph and deathless peace, the bugle-call and silence--the