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Un des symboles suivants apparaltra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole — ► signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre film6s d des taux de rMuction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est filmi d partir de I'angle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nicessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mithode. 1 2 3 32X ' 1 2 3 4 5 6 / THE WORLD'S DESIRE A TALE OF OLD EGYPT FULL OF MARVELS AND ADVENTURES. BY H. RIDER HAGGARD AND ANDREW LANG TORONTO: WILLIAM BRYCE. V yO'^ f^ d \J \) Kn.e,ed acc.r.'Hi=Kr.ent^o^Ouyaa. -^^^^^^ ^- LiMM.sand .Mght hundred and OU.ety by W ILLIAM BK^Ch in Minister of AgiiculUire. 1 \\h ■T'l PALINODE. Thou that of old didst blind Sfeaichonis, If e'er, swoet Helen, such a thin^ befcll, We pray thee of thy grace, lit? ^ood to us, Thonoled, with waving v< ng, The banquets (jf the Cyprian king. Old shapes of -ong that do not die Shall haunt the halls of memory, And though the Bow f^'fH pndude ' h ar Shrill as the song t f Gunnar i .,peaT, There answer soLs from lute and lyre That murmured of The World's Desire. -I There lives no man but he hath seen The World's Desire, the fairy queen. None but hath seen her to his cost. Not one but loves what he has lost. N<^ne is there but hath heard her sing Divinely through his wandering ; Not one but he hath followed far The portent of the Bleeding Star ; Not one but he hath chanced to wake, Dreamed of the Star and found the Snake. Yet, through his dreams, a wandering fire. Still, still she flits, The World's Desire I •>; CONTEND? BOOK I. •HAP. I. THK SfLKNT rstLE 11. TIIK VISION OF THK WOKI.l) S JUvSniE III. TllIC SLAVJNCi i»F Till; SJDO.NfAN.S IV. TiiK m>ooi> Ki;i> ;-i:a V. MEKIAMl N THE (^UKi N VI. THK STOHV OF MKUIAMIN ... VII. THE QUKKX'S VISIOX .... V'lll. THE KA, THE BAI, AM) TJII-; iaioU .. PAOK 14 37 46 54 66 75 BOOK II. M ■*■ ./.iV 1 I, THE PROPHETS OF THE Ai'l !; \ II. THE NIGHT OF DR?:AD in. THE HAI'HS OF BRONZE IV. THE QUEZN's ( HAMBKR V. THE CHAPEL PKRILOl'S VI. THE VVARM;NS of THK (iATF, \1I. THE SHADOW IN ["HE ST.rNJ IGHT . 91 . 102 . 116 lo3 ,. 14.) l-'i,") hit) VIII. IX. X. XI. CONIENTS. THE LOOSING OP TIIK SPIKIT OF REI THK WAKINCJ OF TIIK SLKEPEll TUB OATH OP THF. WANDEIlKIl THB WAKING OF THE WANDERER ... iMur • • • 178 • t • 187 • ■ • 200 • •• 211 I ye. I BOOK III. I. THE VENGEANCE OF KHRRI ,., ... 220 II. THE COMING OF PHARAOH ... ... 232 III. THE HKD OF TORMENT ... ... ... 243 IV. Pharaoh's dream ... ... ... 256 V. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD ... ... ... 2«i5 VI. THE m;UMNG OF THE SHRI >JE ... ... 280 VII. THE LAST FICHT OF ODV.SHEUS, LAERTES' SON ... 290 VIII 'TILL ODYSSEUS COMES 1 ' ... .„ ... 304 * i BOOK I. CHAPTER T. THE SILKNT ISLE. Across the wide backs of the waves, beneath the mountains, and between the islands, a sl»ip came steal- intr from tlie dark into the dusl and from the dusk into the dawn. The ship had bu. one mast, one broad brown sail with a star embroidered on it in gold ; her stem and stern were built high, and curved like a bird's beak ; her prow was painted scarlet, and she was driven by oars as well as by the western wind. A man stood alone on the half-deck at the bows, a man who looked always forward, tlirough the night, and the twilight, and the clear morning. He was of no great stature, but broad-breasted and very wide- shouldered, with many signs of strength. He had blue eyes, and dark cuiled locks falling beneath a red cap such as sailors wear, and over a purple cloak, fastened with a brooch of gold. There were threads of silver in his curls, and his beard was flecked with white. His whole heart was following his eyes, watching first for THE WORljys DESIRE, the blaze of the ialuiid brarons out of thu HarkFit'Ss, and, hiter, for the smoke risiiifr from the far-off hillH. IJut he watched in vain ; there was neither light nor smoke on the gray peak that lay clear against a field of yellow sky. There was no smoke, no fire, no sound of voices, nor cry of birds. The isle was deadly still. As they nearod the <;oast, and neither heard nor saw a sign of life, the man's face fell. The ^]adne.ss went out of his eyes, his features grew older with anxiety and doubt, and with longing for tidings of his home. No man ever loved his home more than he, for this wtus Odysseus, the son of Laertes — whom some call (Tlys.ses — returned from his unsung second wandering. The whole world has heartl the tale of his first voyage, how he was tossed for ten years on the sea after the taking ol" Troy, how he rea<.']ied home at last, alone and disguised as a beggar ; liow he found violence in his house, how he slew his fbos in his own hall, and won his wife ngain. But even in his own country he wns not permitted to rest, for there was a curse upon him and a labour to be v ;complished. He must v/ander again till he reacl)ed the land ot men who had never tasted salt, nor ever h(?ard of tlie salt sea. There he must sacrifice to the Set-God, and then, at last, set his face homewards. Now he had endured that curse, he had fulfilled the prophecy, he had angered, by mis- adventure, the Goddess who was his friend, and after adventures that have never yet buun told, he had arrived within a bowshot of Ithaca. He came from stran<:e comitrics, from the Gates of i. ^ % THE SILENT ISLE, * the Run :iii(l the White Rock, fn>m (lio PjihsIii;,' Place of Souls HiMJ lli^- |K!opIe of Dreams. But he found his own isU' lunn- still and stranj^e hy tar. The re^lni of Dn'anis was not so dundj, the (Jatesof the Sun were not so Htill, as the shores of the familiar iahind beneath the rising dawn. This story, whereof the substanee was set out lon^^ ago by Uei, the instrueted Kgyptian priest, tells what he found tluie, and the tale of the last ndvtiitures of (Klysseus, Laei f.es' son. The ship ran on nnd won the well-known haven, sheltered from wind by two headlands of sheer i;litf. There she sailed straiL;ht in, till the leaves of the brjud olive tree at tlie head of the inlet were tangled in lier cordage. Then the Wanden;r, without once looking back, or saying one word of fannvell to his erew, caught a boujjh of the olive tree with his h;i ud, and swuui: himself ashore. Here he kneeled, and kissed the earth, and, covering his head within his cloak, he ]>rayed that he might find his house at peace, his wife dear and true, .'ind his son worthy of him. But not one word of his prayer was to be granted. The Gods give and take, but on the earth the Gods cannot restore. When he rose from his knees he glanced back across the waters, but there was now u<> ship in the haven, nor any sign of a sail upon the se:is. And still the land was silent ; not i-'veu the wild birds ci ied lC( a welcome The sun was hardly up, men were scarce awake, the Wanderer said to himself; and he set a stout heait IHE WORLDS DESIRE. to the steep path leadmg up the hill, over the wolds, and across t]\e ridge of 'ock that divides the two masses of the island. Up he eliirbed, purposing, as of old, to seek the house of h*s faithful servant, the swineherd, and learn from hirn the tidinirs of his home. On the brow of a hill he sto^ ,)ed to rest, and looked down on the house of the servant. But the strong oak palisade was broken, no smoke came from the hole in the thatched roof, and as lie approached, the dogs did not run barking, as sheep-dogs do, at the stranger. The very path to the house was overgrown, and dumb with grass ; even a dog's keen ears could scarcely have heard a footstep. The door of the swineherd's hut was open, but all was dark within. The spiders had woven a glittering web across the empty blackness, a sign that ior many days no man had entered. Then the Wanderer shouted twice, and thrice, but the only answer was an echo from the hill. He went in, hoping to find food, or perhaps a spark of fire sheltered under the dry leaves. But all was vacant and r )ld as death. The Wanderer came forth into the warm sunlight, S" \h face to the hill again, and went on his way to tht :..:.ty of Ithaca. Hi savy the sea from the hill-top glittering as of yore, h'<:i> there were no brown sails of fisher-boats on the sea. All the land that should now have waved with the white corn was green with tangled weeds. Half-way down the nigged path was a grove of alders, and the basin into which water flowed from the old fountain of the Nymphs. But no maidens were there with their M if ':..f -I . THE SILENT ISLE. ft a I pitchers ; the basin was broken, and green with mould ; the water slipped through the crevices and hurried to the sea. There were no offerings of wayfarers, rags and pebbles, by the well ; and on tlie altar of the Nymphs the riame had long been cold. The very ashes were covered with grass, and a branch of ivy had hidden the stone of sacrifice. On the Wanderer pressed with a heavy heart ; now the higii roof of his own hall and the wide fenced courts were within his sight, and he hurried forward to know the worst. Too soon he saw that the roofs were smokeless, and all the court was deep in weeds. Where the altar of Zeus had stood in the midst of the court there was now DO altar, but a great, gray mound, not of earth, but of whitedurft mixed with black. Ove this mound the coarse grass pricked up scantily, like thin hair on a leprosy. Then the Wanderer shuddered, for out of the gray mound peeped the charred black bones of the dead. He drew near, and, lo ! the whole heap was of nothing else than the ashes of men and women. Death had been busy here : here many people had perished of a pestilence. They had all been consumed on one funeral tire, while they who laid them there must nave fled, for there was no sign of living man. The doors gaped open, and none entered, and none came forth. The house was dead, like the people who had dwelt in it. Then the Wanderer paused where once the old hound Argos had welcomed him and had died ia that welcome. There, unwelcorned, he stood, leaning on his Blatf. Then a sudden ray of the sun fell on something THE WORLD'S DESIRE. th;\t glittered in the heap, anil he tcjuched it with the end 01 +he statf he had in his hand. It slid jingling from the heap ; it was a bone, of a fore-arm, and that which glittered on it was a half-molten ring of gold. On the gold these characters were engraved : IKMAAIOS MKHOIESEN. (Icmalios made me.) At the sight of the armlet the Wanderer fell on the earth, grovelling nmong the ashes of the pyre, for he knew the gold ring which he had brought from Ephyre long ago, for a gift to his wife Penek-pe. This was the bracelet of the bride of his youth, and here, a mockery and a terror, wero those kind arms in which he had lain. Then his ;5trength was shaken with sobbing, and his hands clutched blindly before him, and he gatlu red dust and cast it upon his head till the dark locks were defiled witli the ashes of his dearest, and he longed to die. There he lay, b;ting his hands for sorrow, and for Avrath against God and F'ate. Thc.f> he la}' while the tsun in the heavens smote him, and he knew it not; while the wind of the sunset stirred in his hair, and he stirred not. He could not even shed one tear, for this was the sorest of all the sorrows that he had known on the waves of the sea, or on land among the wars of men. The sun fell and tlie ways were darkened. Slowly the eastern sky grew silver with the moon. A night- fowl's voice was heard from afar, it drew nearer ; then through the shadow of the pyre the black wings tlut- %. •■t I THE SILENT ISLE. 1 tered into the light. otkI the carrion bird fixed its t ' Like the birds that meet "■; > For the feast of war, Till the air of tight With our wings be stirred, v . As it whirrs from the tiight Of th« ravdning bird. 1 1 THE SILENT ISLE. xi Like the flakes that drift On the snow- wind's br ith, Miiny and swift, And winged for death — Greedy and Heet, Do we speed from far, Like the birds that meet On the bridge of war. Fleet as ghosts tliat wail, When the dart strikes true, Do the swift shafts hail, Till they drink warm ilew Keen and low Do the gray shafts sing The Song of the Bow, The sound of the string. This was the message of Death, and this was the first sound that had broken the stillness of his home. At the welcome of this music which spoke to his heart — this music he had heard so many a time — the Wan- derer knew that there was war at hand. He knew that the wings of his arrows should be swift to fly, and their beaks of bronze were whetted to drink the blood of men. He put out his hand and took the bow, and tried the string, and it answered shrill as the song of the swallow. Then at lencrth, when he heard the bowstring t\vansf to his touch, the fountains of his sorrosv were unsealed ; tears came like soft rains on a frozen land, and the Wanderer wept. When he had his fill of weeping, he rose, for hunger drove him — hunger that is of all things the most shame- less, being stronger far than sorrow, or love, or any other desire. The Wanderer found his way through the narrow door behind the dais, and stumbling now and 12 TME IVORLD'S DESIRE. n again over fallen fraj^raents of tlie home which he himself had built, he went, to the inner, secret store- house. Even he could scarcely find the door, for sap- lings of trees had grown up about it ; yet he found it at last. Within the holy Wv'^ll the water was yet babbling and shining in the moonlight over the silver sands ; and here, too, there was store of mouldering grain, for the house had been abundantly rich when the great plague fell upon the people while he was far away. So he found food to satisfy his hunger, after a sort, and next he gathered tog tether out of his treasure-chest the beautiful golden armour of unhappy Paris, son of Priam, the talse love of fair Helen. These arms had been taken at the sack of Troy, and had lain long iu the treasury of Menelaus in Spai ta ; but on a day he had given them to Odysseus, the dearest of all his guests. The Wanderer clad himself in this golden gear, and took the sword called 'Euryalus's Gift,' a bronze blade with a silver hilt, and a sheath of ivory, which a stranger had given him in a far-off land. Already the love of life had come back to him, now that he had eaten and drunk, find had heard the Sonir of the Bow, the Slayer of Men. He lived yet, and hope livei in him though Ins house was desolate, and his wedded wife was dead, and there was none to give him tidings of his one child, Telemachus. Even so life beat strong in his heart, and his hands would keep his head if any sea-robbers had come to the city of Ithaca and made their home there, like hawks in the forsaken nest of an eagle of the sea. So he clad himself in his armour, and chose out two spears from a stand of ':^ mji. ."ilLEMT ISLE. 13 lancoa, and cleaned them, and girt about his shoulders a quiver full of shafts, and took in hand his great bow, the Bow of Eurytus, which no other man could bend. Then he went forth from the ruined house into the moonlight, went forth for the last time ; for never again did the high roof echo to the footstep of its lonl. Long has the grass grown over it, and the sea-wind waited ! a Ind Ind to ren lid of bhe self M THE WORLUS DESIRE. ^^ CHAPTER II. THE VISION OF THE WORLD'S DESIRE. The fragrant night was clear ami still, the silence scarce broken by the lapping of the waves, as the Wanderer went down fiom his fallen home to the city on the sea, walking warily, and watching for any light from the hoiues of the people. But they were all as dark as his own, many of them roofless and ruined, for, after the plague, an earthquake had smitten the city. Tl ,re were gapiiig chasms in the road, here and there, an ' through lifts in the walls of the houses the moon shone strangtdy, making nigged shadows. At last the Wanderer reached tlie Temple of Athene, the Goddess of War ; but the roof had fallen in, the pillars were overset, and the scent of wild thyme growing in the broken pavement rose where he walked. Yet, as he stood by the door of the fane, where he had burned so many a sacrifice, at length he spied a light blazing from the windows of a great chapel by the sea. It was the Tempi;; of Aj)hrodite, the Queen of Love, and from the open door a sweet savour of incense and a golden blaze rushed fbrtli till thev were lost in th > silver of the moonshine an I in thu salt smell of the sea. Thither •\ ■il , t; ,■ »£« . THE VISION or THE IVORLiyS DESIRE. 15 ■ M I t the Wanderer wmt slowly, for his limbs were swaying with weariness, and he was half in a dream. Yet lie hid himself cunningly in the sliadow of a long avenue of myrtles, for he guessed that sea-robbers were keeping revel in the forsaken shrine. But he heard no sound of singing and no treail of dancing feet within the fane of the Goddess of Love ; the sacred ph)t of the goddess and her chapels were silent. He hearkened awhile, and watched, till at last he took courage, drew near the doors, and entered the holy place. But in the tall, bronze braziers there were no fa^jgots burning, nor were there torches lighted in the hands of the golden men and maids, the images that stand within the fane of Aphrodite. Yei, if he did not dream, nor take moon- liglit for fire, the :emple was bathed in showers of gold by a splendour of dame. None might see its centre nor its fountain ; it sprang neither from the altar nor the statue of the goddess, but was everywhere imminent, a glory not of this world, a fire untended and unlit. And the painted walls with the stories of the loves of men and gods, ?ind the carven pillars and the beams, and the roof of green, were bright with flaming fire ! At this the Wanderer was afraid, knowing that an Immortal was at hand ; for the comings and the goings of the gods were attended, as he had seen, by this wonderful light of unearthly fire. So he bowed his head, and hid his face as he sat by the altar in the holiest of the holy shrine, and with his right hand he grasped the horns of the altar. As he sat there, perchance he woke, and perchance he slept. How- ever it was, it seemed to hi in that soon there came a i6 THE WORLD'S DESIRE. iTmnnuriiig nnti a whisjjorin*,' of tlie myrtle leaves and liuirels, and a sound in the tops of the pines, and then his face was fanned by a breath more cold than the wind tliat wnkes the dawn. At ihe touch of this breath tl>e Wanderer shuddered, and the hair on his flesh stood up, so cold was the s*»"m,(^e wind. There was silence ; and he heard a voice, and he kiHJW that it was the voice of no mortal, but of a goddess. For the speech of goddesses was not strange in his ears; he knew the clarion cry of Ath«^ne, the Qneen of Wisdom and of War; and the winning words of Circe, the Daughter of the Sun. and the sweet .song of Calypso's voice as she wove with her golden shuttle at the loom. But now the words came sweeter than the u.oaning of doves, more soft than sleep. So came the golden voice, whether he woke or whether he dreamed. 'Odysseus, thou knowest me not, nor am I thy lady nor hast thou ever been my servant ! Where is she, the Queen of the Air, Athene, and why comest ikon here as a suppliant at the knees of the daughter of Dione?' He answered nothing, but he bowed his head in deeper sorrow. . ' . The voice spake again : 'Behold, thy house is desolate; thy hearth is cold. The wild hare breeds on thy hearthstone, and the night- bird roosts beneath thy roof-t ue. Thou hast neither child nor wife nor native land, and slie hath forsaken thee — thy Lady Athene. Many a time didst thou sacrifice to her the thighs of kine and sheep, but didst THE VISION Of THE WO A' ID'S /)i:s/A'A i? thou over ^ive so niucli as ;i pair of (l')ves to me / H.ith she loft thee, as the Dawn forssook Tithonus, berause there are now threads of silver in the tiurknesa of thy hair ? Is the wise goddess Hckie us a nymph of the woodland or the wells? Doth she love a man only for the bloom of his youth? Nay, I know not; but this 1 know, that on thee Odysseus, old age will soon be hastening- -old age that is pitiless, and ruinous, an be too late, I would bow even thee to my will, and holo thee for my thrall. For I am slu^ who conquers i.A things living : Gods and beasts and men. And hast thou thought that thou only shalt escape Aphrodite ? Thou that hast never loved as I would have men love; thou that hast never obeyed me for an hour, nor ever known the joy and the sorrow that are mine to give ? For thou didst but endure the caresses of Circe, the Daughter of the Sun, and thou ./ert aweary in the arms of Calypso,- and the Sea King's daughter came never to her longing. As ior her who is dead, thy dear wife Penelope, thou di('st love her with a loyal heart, but never with a heart of lire. Nay, she was but thy companion, thy house- wife, and the mother of thy child. She was mingled with all thy memories of the land thou lovest, and so thou gavest her a little love. But she is dead ; and thy child too is no more ; and thy very country is as the ashes of a forsaken liearth where once was a camp of men. What have all tliy wars and "wanderings won for thee, all thy labours, and all the adventures thou hast achieved ? For what c vU i8 THE WOKLiyS DESIRE. didst thou seek amon<( tlie living and the dead ? Thou songlitest that which all men Heek — tiiuu aoughtest Thf. World's Desire. They find it not, nor iuist thou found it, Odys-'sous ; .ind thy friends are doiui ; tliy land is dead ; nothing lives but Hope. But the life that lies before thee is new, without a reniniiiit of the old days, except for tlie bitterness of h)nging and reniiMuhrance. Out of this new life, and the unborn hours, wilt thou not give, what never before thou gavest, one hour to me, to be my servant ? ' The voice, as it seemed, grew softer and ranv nearer, till the Wanderer heard it whisper in his very ear, and with the voice came a divine fiugrance. The l)reath of her who spoke seemed to touch his neck ; the immortal tresses of the Goddess were mingled with the dark curls of his hair. The voice spake again : 'Nay, Odysseus, didst thou not once give me one little hour? Fear not, for thou shalt not see me at this time, but lift thy head and look on The World's Desire ! ' Then the Wanderer lifted his head, and he saw, as it were in :. picture or in a mirror of bronze, the vision of a girl. She was more than mortal tall, and though still in the first flower of youth, and almost a child in years, she seemed fair as a goddess, and so beautiful that Aphrodite herself may perclianoe have envied this loveliness. She was slim and gracious as a young shoot of a palm tree, and her eyes Nvere fearless and innocent as a child's. On her head she bore a shining um of broLze, as if she were bringing water from the wells. Tlir VISION OF THE WORLirS DESIRE. 19 and bolmid her wtis tlie foliage of a plane tnc. Then the Wanderer knew htr, and saw litr once again oh ho bad «t'en her, when in his boyliood ho 1 ad jourtioyed to the iVnirt of her father, Kin^ Tyndareus. For, as he entered Spartii, and came down the liill Taygotiis, and as his chariot whiels Haslied thr«)Uj;h th«^ ford of Eurotas, he had met her there on her way from the river. Thei , in his youth, his eyes had -azed on the loveliness of Helen, and his heart had l)eeii filhiil with the desire of the fairest of women, and like rdl the princes of Achaia he had sought iier haul in nmiriage. TJut Helen was given to another man, to Munelaus, Atreus' son, of an evil house, that the knees of many might be loosened in death, and that thore might be a sou'M ransom. It was a lucky voyage, they said, and the wind was fair ! The rest of the journey was long, but in well-known waters. They passed by Cephalonia and the rook of ./Egilips, and wooded Zacynthus, and Sam^, and of all those isles he was the lord, whom they were now selling into captivity. But he lay still, breathing heavily, and he stirred but once — that was when they neared Zacvnthus, Then he strained his head round with a mighty strain, and he saw the sun go down upon the heights of rocky .Tthacji, for that last time of all. So the swift ship ran along the coast, slipping by forgotten towns. Past the Echinean isles, and the Elian sliore, and pleasant Eirene they sped, and it was dusk ere they reached Dorion. Deep night had fallen when they ran by Pylos; and the light of the fires in the hall of Pisistratus, the son of Nestor the Old, shone out across the sandy sea-coast and the sea.. But when they were come near Ma'iea, the southernmost point of land, where two seas meet, there the storm snatched them, and drove them ever southwards, beyond Crete, towards the mouth of the Nile. They scud < led long before the storm-wind, losim? their reckoning, and rush- ing by island temples that showed like ghosts through the mist, and past havens whicli tliey could not win. On they fled, and the men would gladly have lightened the ship by casting the cargo overboard ; but the captain watched the hatches with a sword and two THE SLAYING OF THE SIDONIANS. 27 bronze-tipped spears in liis hand. He would sink or swim with tlie ship; he wouhi go down wiih his treasure, or reach Sidon, the City of Flowers, and build a white ]lOU!^e among the palms by the waters of Bostren, and never try the sea again. 80 he swore ; and he would not let them cast the Wanderer overboard, as they desired, because he had brought bad luck. ' He shall bring a good price in Tanis,' cried the captain And at last the storm abated, and the Sidoniaus took heart, and were glad like men escaped from death ; so they sacrificed and poured forth wine before the dwarf-gods on the prow of their vessel, and burned incense on their little altar. In their mirth, and to mock the Wanderer, they hung his sword and his shield against the mast, and his (juiver and his bow they arrayed in the fashion of a trophy ; and they mocked him, believing that he knew no v.ord of their speech. But he knew it well, as he knew the speech of the people of Egypt ; for he had seen the cities of many men, and had spoken with captains and mercenaries from many a land in the great wars. The Sidonians, however, jibed and spoke freely before him, saying how they were bound for the rich city of Tanis, on the banks c. the River of Egypt, and how the captain was minded tc pay his toll to Pharaoh with the body and the armour of the Wanderer. That he might seem the comelier, and a gift more fit for a king, the sailors slackened his bonds a little, and brou-ht him dried iiuat and wine, and he ate till his strentrth returned to him. Then he entreated them by signs to tS THE IVORLjyS DESIRR. I 1 loosen tlio r'oni tliat bound his U*gs ; for indo<"l liis limbs \V(!re (load throuffli the strength of the boinls. and liis aiuioiir was oatii.'g into l)i>; tiesh. At his prayer they took sonie ]);ty of him and loosened his bonds again, and he lay upon his baciv, mt)ving his legs to and fro till his strength came bai^k. So they sailed soutliward ever, through smooth waters and past the islands that lie like vvater- lilies in the midland sea. Many a strange sight they saw : vessels bearing slaves, whose sighing might be hoard above the sighing of wind and vvater — young men and maidens of Ionia and Aohaia, stolen \y\ sluve-ti'aders into bondage; now they would touch at the white havens of a peaceful city ; and again they wmild watch a smoke on the sea-line all day, rising black into the heavens; but by nightfall the smoke would change to a great roaring fire from the beacons of a beleaguered island town ; the fire would blaze on the masts of the ships of the besiegers, and show blood -red on their sails, and glitter on the gilded shields that lined the bulwarks of the shi])s. But the Sidonians sped on till, one night, they anchored off a little isle that lies over against the mouth of the Nile. Beneath this isle they moored the ship, and slept, most of them, ashore. Then the Wanderer began to plot a way to escape, though the enterprise seemed desperate enough. He was lying in the darkness of the hold, sleepless and sore with his bonds, wluJe hih guard watched under an awning in the moonlight on the deck. They dreamed so little of his escaping that they visited him only by f f 'I THE SLAYliVG OF THE SIDOmAiVS. 29 wfttclies, now and a^ain ; and, as it chant'cci, the man wlioae turn it was to see tliat all was will fell asleep Many a thought went through the prisoner's mind, and now it seemed to him that the visi(m of the Goddess was only a vision of sleep, which came, as they said, thr(>n^d^ the false Gates of Ivory, and not through the dates of Horn, So he was to live in s.avery after all, a king no longer, hut a captive, toiling in the Egyptian mines of Sinai, or a soldier at, a palace gate, till he died. Thus he hrooded, till out of the stillness came a thin, faint, thrilling sound from the bow that hung against the mast over hi^ head, the bow that he never thought to string again. There was a noise of a singing of the bow and of tl:e string and the wordless song shaped itself thus in the heart of the Wanderer: Lo ! the hour is nigh And tlie time lo smite, When tlie (be ishall lly Fmnn tl;e arrow's fi'i^ht ! Let the bronze bite tleep 1 Let the war-ljirds fly T''j)on them that sleep And are ripe to die ! I Iirill and low Do the gray sliafts sing The Song of the Bow, The sound of the string ! Then the low music died into the silence, and the Wanderer knew that the next sun would not set on the day of slavery, and that his revenge was near His bonds would be no barriei- to his vengoanc<^ ; tl ey would break hke burnt tow, he knew, in the hie of liis anger. $0 THE WORLD'S DESIRE. Long since, in hia old days of wamlering, Calyf>so, his love, had tausht him in tlie summer leisure of lier sea- girt isle how to tie knots that no man eould untie, an