we went below, the wind amuses itself by raising little vortices of sand
that imitate the spray of an angry sea. On all sides dark clouds stretch
themselves as at the moment of our descent. The horizon detaches itself
more and more clearly from them, and, farther towards the east, it
actually seems to be tilted up; one of the highest of the waves of this
waterless sea, a mountain of sand whose soft contours are deceptive in
the distance, makes it look as if it sloped towards us, so as almost to
produce a sensation of vertigo. The sun itself has deigned to remain on
the scene a few seconds longer, held beyond its time by the effect of
mirage; but it is so changed behind its thick veils that we would prefer
that it should not be there. Of the colour of dying embers, it seems
too near and too large; it has ceased to give any light, and is become a
mere rose-coloured globe, that is losing its shape and becoming oval.
No longer in the free heavens, but stranded there on the extreme edge of
the desert, it watches the scene like a large dull eye, about to close
itself in death. And the mysterious superhuman triangles, they too, of
course, are there, waiting for us on our return from underground, some
near, some far, posted in their eternal places; but surely they have
grown gradually more blue. . . .

Such a night, in such a place, it seems the _last_ night.



CHAPTER VII

THE OUTSKIRTS OF CAIRO

Night. A long straight road, the artery of some capital, through which
our carriage drives at a fast trot, making a deafening clatter on the