ed around the room, even when pointed
out to him by his young companion. At last he rose, and taking the hand
of the youth, led him to a window, from which the entire city was seen
lying below, with the moving crowds of the populous nation. The immense
city, wonderfully monotonous in its whitewashed walls! the immense
nation, wonderfully monotonous in its black garments! The young man
looked on curiously; the wanderer sighed, and said: 'When they shall
lead you into cities without castles or temples, where the spirit of
freedom is chained, murmur ye: THE DEAD!'

But the younger continued to gaze with ever-growing interest. Carriages
filled with women dressed in brilliant hues were rapidly driving by,
drawn by strong, fleet horses. He saw one drive aside from the throng,
the snowy veil and white draperies of the fair one within fluttering and
floating far on, the breeze, as if the flying chariot were borne onward
by the outspread sails. The Wanderer sighed, and said: 'When women in
rich attire move around you, and you feel that the faint fluttering of
the snowy robe is more spiritual than the life-breath of their
souls--murmur ye: THE DEAD!'

The young man seemed not to hear the words of his friend. Heavy masses
of lurid clouds gathered from every direction, and obscured the face of
the sky. How different the hour of the gloomy noon from that of the
fresh, transparent morning!

The men before whom the People of the Black Nation kneel and prostrate
themselves now began to move through the streets. Their short garments
glittered with gold, and were richly embroidered in gorgeous colors.
They wore long thin swords at their sides, and thick tufts of plumes on
their heads. Shouting with harsh voices, they passed on in power,
striking the children who were lingering in the road as they moved
forward. The children cried and wept; the crowd drew back and fled; and
they remained alone upon the Great Square. More and more of them were
ever thronging there; more and more courteously they ever bowed to one
another, and lower and lower grew their salutes, until at last One rode
forward on a steed richly caparisoned--and then they all fell down with
their faces upon the ground--as if he were the Lord of Life and Death.

Then said the Wanderer: 'He is already on the verge of the abyss, on the
slope of the steep and slippery declivity; he, robed in the purple of
Power, must himself descend into the coffin!'

But the young man rivet