already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda,
restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly through the silent plain
and swam the channels of the river. She put forth the remnant of her
strength, and fled over the ground like a gazelle.

But the first beam of the rising sun sent a long shadow before her
as she entered upon the final stadium of the journey, and the eyes of
Artaban, anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and the Temple of
the Seven Spheres, could discern no trace of his friends.

The many-coloured terraces of black and orange and red and yellow and
green and blue and white, shattered by the convulsions of nature, and
crumbling under the repeated blows of human violence, still glittered
like a ruined rainbow in the morning light.

Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and climbed to the
highest terrace, looking out toward the west.

The huge desolation of the marshes stretched away to the horizon and the
border of the desert. Bitterns stood by the stagnant pools and jackals
skulked through the low bushes; but there was no sign of the caravan of
the Wise Men, far or near.

At the edge of the terrace he saw a little cairn of broken bricks, and
under them a piece of papyrus. He caught it up and read: "We have waited
past the midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the King.
Follow us across the desert."

Artaban sat down upon the ground and covered his head in despair.

"How can I cross the desert," said he, "with no food and with a spent
horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire, and buy a train of
camels, and provision for the journey. I may never overtake my friends.
Only God the merciful knows whether I shall not lose the sight of the
King because I tarried to show mercy."

III

There was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, where I was listening to the
story of the Other Wise Man. Through this silence I saw, but very dimly,
his figure passing over the dreary undulations of the desert, high upon
the back of his camel, rocking steadily onward like a ship over the
waves.

The land of death spread its cruel net around him. The stony waste
bore no fruit but briers and thorns. The dark ledges of rock thrust
themselves above the surface here and there, like the bones of perished
monsters. Arid and inhospitable mountain-ranges rose before him,
furrowed with dry channels of ancient torrents, white and ghastly as
scars on the face of nature. Shifting hills