in the silent sand. And at night there was nothing heard, not even
the barking of a dog. And others of the caravan deserted, and others
were lost.

And now they had come so far into the desert that they could not
return, but must keep on their way, and on the fifth day they came
to the Hill of the Drum. And all through the night they could not
sleep for the booming of the Drum. And some of the caravan went
mad there, and fled screaming into the waste.

And now there was only a great haze about them, and they looked at
one another with terror, saying: "Were we ever any place where green
was, where birds sang, or there was sweet water? Or maybe we are dead.
Or maybe this was all our life, and the pleasant towns, and the
lamplight in the villages, and the apricots in the garden, and our
wives and children, maybe they were all a dream that we woke in the
middle of. Let us lie down and sleep that we may dream again."

But Marco Polo would not let them lie down, for to lie down was death.
But he drove them onward. And again they complained: "Surely God
never saw this place that He left it so terrible. Surely He was
never here. He was never here."

And now that their minds were pitched to the height of madness,
the warlocks of the desert took shape and jeered at them, and the
white-sheeted ghosts flitted alongside of them, and the goblins of
the Gobi harried them from behind. And the sun was like dull copper
through the haze, and the moon like a guttering candle, and stars
there were none.