IT was more than a fortnight since the Moon had shone. Now he stood once more, round and bright, above the clouds, moving slowly onward¹. Hear what the Moon told me.

“From a town in Fezzan I followed a caravan². On the margin³ of the sandy desert, in a salt plain, that shone like a frozen lake, and was only covered in spots with light drifting sand, a halt was made. The eldest⁴ of the company—the water gourd⁵ hung at his girdle, and on his head was a little bag of unleavened bread—drew a square in the sand with his staff, and wrote in it a few words out of the Koran, and then the whole caravan passed over the consecrated⁶ spot. A young merchant, a child of the East, as I could tell by his eye and his figure, rode pensively⁷ forward on his white snorting steed. Was he thinking, perchance, of his fair young wife? It was only two days ago that the camel, adorned⁹ with furs and with costly¹⁰ shawls, had carried her, the beauteous bride, round the walls of the city, while drums and cymbals¹¹ had sounded, the women sang, and festive¹² shots, of which the bridegroom fired the greatest number, resounded¹³ round the camel; and now he was journeying with the caravan across the desert.

“For many nights I followed the train. I saw them rest by the wellside among the stunted¹⁴ palms; they thrust the knife into the breast of the camel that had fallen, and roasted its flesh by the fire. My beams cooled the glowing sands, and showed them the black rocks, dead islands in the immense ocean of sand. No hostile tribes met them in their pathless route, no storms arose, no columns of sand whirled destruction over the journeying caravan. At home the beautiful wife prayed for her husband and her father. ‘Are they dead?’ she asked of my golden crescent; ‘Are they dead?’ she cried to my full disc. Now the desert lies behind them. This evening they sit beneath the lofty palm trees, where the crane flutters round them with its long wings, and the pelican¹⁵ watches them from the branches of the mimosa. The luxuriant herbage is trampled¹⁶ down, crushed by the feet of elephants. A troop of negroes are returning from a market in the interior of the land: the women, with copper¹⁷ buttons in their black hair, and decked out in clothes dyed with indigo¹⁸, drive the heavily-laden oxen, on whose backs slumber¹⁹ the naked black children. A negro leads a young lion which he has brought, by a string. They approach the caravan; the young merchant sits pensive⁸ and motionless, thinking of his beautiful wife, dreaming, in the land of the blacks, of his white lily beyond the desert. He raises his head, and—” But at this moment a cloud passed before the Moon, and then another. I heard nothing more from him this evening.