fragment" Heliobas had mentioned. Very soon he found it, driven
deep into the soil and so blackened and defaced by time that it
was impossible to trace any of the elaborate carvings that must
have once adorned it. In fact it would not have been recognizable
as a portion of a gate at all, had it not still possessed an
enormous hinge which partly clung to it by means of one huge
thickly rusted nail, dose beside it, grew a tree of weird and
melancholy appearance--its trunk was split asunder and one half of
it was withered. The other half leaning mournfully on one side
bent down its branches to the ground, trailing a wealth of long,
glossy green leaves in the dust of the ruined city. This was the
famous tree called by the natives Athel, of which old legends say
that it used to be a favorite evergreen much cultivated and prized
by the Babylonian nobility, who loving its pleasant shade, spared
no pains to make it grow in their hanging gardens and spacious
courts, though its nature was altogether foreign to the soil. And
now, with none to tend it or care whether it flourishes or decays,
it faithfully clings to the deserted spot where it was once so
tenderly fostered, showing its sympathy with the surrounding
desolation, by growing always in split halves, one withered and
one green--a broken-hearted creature, yet loyal to the memory of
past love and joy. Alwyn stood under its dark boughs, knowing
nothing of its name or history,--every now and then a wailing
whisper seemed to shudder through it, though there was no wind,--
and he heard the eerie lamenting sigh with an involuntary sense of
awe. The whole scene was far more impressive by night than by
day,--the great earth mounds of Babylon looked like giant graves
inclosing a glittering ring of winding waters. Again he examined
the imbedded fragment of the ancient gate,--and then feeling quite
certain of his starting-point he set his face steadily toward the