es, while Manuel Ducas, the young merchant of gold and
ostrich feathers, whose name was already known all over the Levant, sat
in silence and listened to their talk. At last, however, they called
upon him also for an anecdote, and leaning his cheek upon his elbow,
with his eyes fixed upon the great red star which burned in the south,
the younger man began to speak.

"It is the sight of that star which brings a story into my mind," said
he. "I do not know its name. Old Lascaris the astronomer would tell me
if I asked, but I have no desire to know. Yet at this time of the year
I always look out for it, and I never fail to see it burning in the same
place. But it seems to me that it is redder and larger than it was.

"It was some ten years ago that I made an expedition into Abyssinia,
where I traded to such good effect that I set forth on my return with
more than a hundred camel-loads of skins, ivory, gold, spices, and other
African produce. I brought them to the sea-coast at Arsinoe, and carried
them up the Arabian Gulf in five of the small boats of the country.
Finally, I landed near Saba, which is a starting-point for caravans,
and, having assembled my camels and hired a guard of forty men from the
wandering Arabs, I set forth for Macoraba. From this point, which is
the sacred city of the idolaters of those parts, one can always join
the large caravans which go north twice a year to Jerusalem and the
sea-coast of Syria.

"Our route was a long and weary one. On our left hand was the Arabian
Gulf, lying like a pool of molten metal under the glare of day, but
changing to blood-red as the sun sank each evening behind the distant
African coast. On our right was a monstrous desert which extends, so far
as I know, across the whole of Arabia and away to the distant kingdom
of the Persians. For many days we saw no sign of life save our own long,
straggling line of laden camels with their tattered, swarthy guardians.
In these deserts the soft sand deadens the footfall of the animals, so
that their silent progress day after day through a scene which never
changes, and which is itself noiseless, becomes at last like a strange
dream. Often as I rode behind my caravan, and gazed at the grotesque
figures which bore my wares in front of me, I found it hard to believe
that it was indeed reality, and that it was I, I, Manuel Ducas, who
lived near the Theodosian Gate of Constantinople, and shouted for the
Green at the hippodrome every S