THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 215 



his sinking head, their rainbowed-hued pennants 

 fluttering across high heaven. A moment more and 

 he is gone. The rainbow hues gradually, very grad- 

 ually, fade. The sky's deep sapphire melts into the 

 blue that elsewhere never is o'er land or sea. The 

 vast plain darkens. Day is dead. 



And then it is that in "the wonderful country" the 

 miracle of resurrection may be seen by those that 

 have eyes to see. Slowly an amber light steals up 

 from the horizon, touches with unearthly finger 

 every bush and sand-hill upon the illimitable rolling 

 plain, then as slowly withdraws its radiance, and 

 concentrating behind the mountains burns and 

 deepens until the whole west is as the glowing em- 

 bers of some mighty conflagration. 



Time passes. Then, hurriedly as it were, night 

 slips her translucent mantle pierced by a myriad 

 stars over earth and heaven. All is over. 



Once in the clear small hours we look forth again, 

 whilst like some blustering invader our train roars 

 through the starlit mysteries and silences of the Un- 

 known Land. Undisturbed by our coming, indif- 

 ferent to our going, sphynx-like still the Desert 

 broods upon her voiceless wastes, her pyramids and 

 towers. But her spirit, the Spirit of the Great 

 Desert, has entered in. It is ours for all time. 



THE END 



