And 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 wastes
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 of treacherous sand were
heaped like tombs along the horizon. By day, the fierce heat pressed
its intolerable burden on the quivering air; and no living creature
moved on the dumb, swooning earth, but tiny jerboas scuttling through
the parched bushes, or lizards vanishing in the clefts of the rock. By
night the jackals prowled and barked in the distance, and the lion made
the black ravines echo with his hollow roaring, while a bitter,
blighting chill followed the fever of the day. Through heat and cold,
the Magian moved steadily onward.
Then I saw the gardens and orchards of Damascus, watered by the streams
of Abana and Pharpar, with their sloping swards inlaid with bloom, and
their thickets of myrrh and roses.
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