And his dreams that night were full of winds, the old sad winds of
Egypt, and of moving, sifting sand. Arabs and Afreets danced amazingly
together across dunes he could never reach. For he could not follow fast
enough. Something infinitely older than these ever caught his feet and
held him back. A million tiny fingers stung and pricked him. Something
flung a veil before his eyes. Once it touched him--his face and hands
and neck. "Stay here with us," he heard a host of muffled voices crying,
but their sound was smothered, buried, rising through the ground. A
myriad throats were choked. Till, at last, with a violent effort he
turned and seized it. And then the thing he grasped at slipped between
his fingers and ran easily away. It had a grey and yellow face, and it
moved through all its parts. It flowed as water flows, and yet was
solid. It was centuries old.

He cried out to it. "Who are you? What is your name? I surely know you
... but I have forgotten ...?"

And it stopped, turning from far away its great uncovered countenance of
nameless colouring. He caught a voice. It rolled and boomed and
whispered like the wind. And then he woke, with a curious shaking in his
heart, and a little touch of chilly perspiration on the skin.

But the voice seemed in the room still--close beside him:

"I am the Sand," he heard, before it died away.

* * * * *

And next he realised that the glitter of Paris lay behind him, and a
steamer was taking him with much unnecessary motion across a sparkling