The sound of the tramping of the weary slaves as they go round and
round never comes to the surface. Long since the musicians sleep,
and their hands have fallen dumb upon their instruments, and the
voices in the city have died away. Perhaps a sigh of one of the
desert women has become half a song, or on a hot night in summer one
of the women of the hills sings softly a song of snow; all night
long in the midst of the purple garden sings one nightingale; all else
is still; the stars that look on Babbulkund arise and set, the
cold unhappy moon drifts lonely through them, the night wears on; at
last the dark figure of Nehemoth, eighty-second of his line, rises
and moves stealthily away.'

The traveller ceased to speak. For a long time the clear stars,
sisters of Babbulkund, had shone upon him speaking, the desert
wind had arisen and whispered to the sand, and the sand had long
gone secretly to and fro; none of us had moved, none of us had
fallen asleep, not so much from wonder at his tale as from the
thought that we ourselves in two days' time should see that wondrous
city. Then we wrapped our blankets around us and lay down with our
feet towards the embers of our fire and instantly were asleep, and in
our dreams we multiplied the fame of the City of Marvel.

The sun arose and flamed upon our faces, and all the desert glinted
with its light. Then we stood up and prepared the morning meal, and,
when we had eaten, the traveller departed. And we commended his soul
to the god of the land whereto he went, of the land of his home to
the northward, and he commended our souls to the God of the people
of the land wherefrom we had come. Then a traveller overtook us
going on foot; he wore a brown cloak that was all in rags and he
seemed to have been walking all night, and he walked hurriedly but