12 ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS 



tages, for in the freezing cold of early morning I could 

 linger about the fire with a good excuse. 



It was a perfect autumn night. Every star in the 

 world of space seemed to have been crowded into our 

 own particular expanse of sky, and each one glowed like 

 a tiny lantern. When I had found a patch of sand and 

 had dug a trench for my hip and shoulder, I crawled 

 into the sleeping bag and lay for half an hour looking 

 up at the bespangled canopy above my head. Again 

 the magic of the desert night was in my blood, and I 

 blessed the fate which had carried me away from the 

 roar and rush of New York with its hurrying crowds. 

 But I felt a pang of envy when, far away in the dis- 

 tance, there came the mellow notes of a camel-bell. 

 Dong, dong, dong it sounded, clear and sweet as cathe- 

 dral chimes. With surging blood I listened until I 

 caught the measured tread of padded feet, and saw the 

 black silhouettes of rounded bodies and curving necks. 

 Oh, to be with them, to travel as Marco Polo traveled, 

 and to learn to know the heart of the desert in the long 

 night marches! Before I closed my eyes that night I 

 vowed that when the war was done and I was free to 

 travel where I willed, I would come again to the desert 

 as the great Venetian came. 



