Prince stood ready girthed. Swartland 

 renamed " Bucephalus," the black stallion with 

 the big head and the vicious, white-rimmed 

 eye was recalcitrant and resented the ap- 

 proach of Hendrick with the saddle. But I 

 had decided to ride on; Hendrick was not to 

 follow until the afternoon. I threatened that 

 faithful follower with grievous penalties if so 

 much as a silhouette of himself and his ugly 

 steed shewed on my sky-line until after the 

 sun had passed the zenith. 



For we meant to be alone that day, Prince 

 and I ; to feel that we had got close enough to 

 the heart of Solitude to hear its beats, to try 

 and capture in our ears, dulled by so-called 

 civilisation, some syllables of that lore with 

 which the desert's murmuring undertone is so 

 rich, but which only the great of soul can fully 

 understand. The cast of the desert's message 

 is epic rather than lyrical. The cloud-mantled 

 mountain and the green valley, the forest, 

 the stream and the foaming sea teach the poet 

 his sweeter songs. But it is the Prophet of 

 God, the law-giver and the warrior who listen 

 for and learn their stern messages from the 

 tongues of the arid wilderness. 



The difference between the desert and the 

 fertile tract is that between the ascetic and the 



