56 LODGES IN THE WILDERNESS 



A faint, hushing breath, less felt than heard, 

 touched us and passed on over the shuddering 

 plain. Its course was from the north; it left 

 increasing heat on its track. Another, not so 

 faint, but definitely audible, — tangible as 

 flame. It was indeed the breath of Typhon, 

 — the suspiration of his awakening fury. A 

 fringe as of erect russet hair plumed his 

 hunched shoulders. Here and there immense 

 tufts, like those of a waving, quivering mane, 

 were hurled aloft; they fell back in the form of 

 cataracts. Then — like the sudden smoke of a 

 volcano, his loosened locks streamed forth on 

 the tempest. Typhon was awake and had 

 arisen in his blighting wrath. 



His breath had not yet reached us, but it was 

 very near. His voice was a penetrating, sibil- 

 lant hiss, with a moaning undertone — the 

 utterance of fury rendered inarticulate by its 

 own intensity. Now the sand-spouts which 

 had been flung upwards, rained on us in fine, 

 almost impalpable dust, that scorched where 

 it fell. It filled the air we strove to breathe; 

 it blinded and baffled us as we vainly sought 

 for shelter. 



Then darkness settled down and the moan- 

 ing undertone swelled to a roar. We crouched 

 within the wagon, the tilt of which rocked and 



