It was more than a fortnight since the Moon had shone．Now he stood once more，round and bright，above the clouds，moving slowly onward．Hear what the Moon told me．
"From a town in Fezzan I followed a caravan．On themargin of the sandy desert，in a salt plain，that shone like a frozen lake，and was onlycovered in spots with light drifting sand，a halt wasmade．The eldest of the compa- ny—the water-gourd hung at his girdle，and byhis head lay—a little bag of unleavened bread—drew a square in the 1336 sand with his staff，and wrote in it a few words out of the Koran，and then the whole caravan passed over the conse- crated spot．A young merchant，a child of the East，as I could tell by his eye and his figure，rodepensively for- ward on his white snorting steed．Was hethinking，Per- chance，of hisfair young wife？It was only two days ago that the camel，adorned with furs and with costly shawls，had carried her，the beauteous bride，round the walls of the city，while drums andcymbals had sounded，the women sang，and festive shots，of which the bridegroomfired the greatest number，resounded round the camel；
and now he was journeying with the caravan across the desert．
"For many nights I followed the train．I saw themrest by the well-side among the stunted palms；theythrust the knife into the breast of the camel that had fallen，and roasted its flesh by the fire．My beamscooled the glowing sands，and showed them the blackrocks，dead islands in the immense ocean of sand．No hostile tribes met them in their pathless route，no storms arose，no columns of sand whirleddestruction over the journeying caravan．At home thebeautiful 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 disk．Now the desert lies behind them．This eveningthey sit beneath the lofty palm-trees，where the craneflutters round them with its long wings，and the pelicanwatches them from the branches of the mimosa．Theluxuriant herbage is tram- pled down，crushed by thefeet of elephants．A troop of negroes are returning froma market in the interior of the land；the women，with copper buttons in their black hair， anddecked out in clothes dyed with indigo，drive theheavily-laden oxen，on whose backs slumber the nakedblack children．A negro leads by a string a young lionwhich he has bought．They approach the caravan；the young merchant sits pensive and motionless，thinking of his beautiful wife，dreaming，in the land of the blacks，of his whitefragrant lily beyond the desert．He raises his head，and—"
But at this moment a cloud passed before the Moon， andthen another．I heard nothing more from him that evening．
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