panic, and a burning wind came, and the sands rose, and the desert
heeled like a ship, and the day became night.

And young Marco Polo could stand no more. That was the end, the end
of him, the end of the world, the end of everything. There was red
darkness every where, and he could see nobody. "O my Lord Jesus!"
he cried. "O little Golden Bells!" The wind boomed like an organ.
The sand screamed. "O my Lord Jesus! O little Golden Bells!" And
the voices of his father and uncle were like the tweeting birds.
"Where's the lad, Matthew? Where's our lad?" "Mark, Mark, where
have you got to? Lad of our heart, where are you?" But they couldn't
find each other. The sand buffeted them like shuttlecocks. "Boy Mark!"
The sand snarled like a dog; the wind hammered like drums. "Oh, Golden
Bells! O, little Golden Bells! O, my Lord Jesus, must it end here ?"

And the fight went out of him, and a big sob broke in him, and he
lay down to die. . .



CHAPTER XI

I shall now tell you of Golden Bells, and her in the Chinese Garden.



CHAPTER XII

I would have you now see her as I see her, standing before Li Po, the
great poet, in her green costume. And Li Po, big, fat, with sad