Chapter Twelve.
Three Clouds on the Horizon.
On the summit of the topmost of those gigantic mountains, the peak of which is lost high in the depths of the cloudless sky, a female stands, and gazes southward.
Her fair form is mysteriously draped in white, and the parasol with which she shuts out the scorching sun from her face effectually conceals her features.
“He cometh—he cometh not,” says she, weeping.
At length, in the remote horizon of the limitless desert, there arises a little cloud of dust.
Is it a panther seeking its prey? or a newspaper buffeted by the wind? or the mirage of the desert?
It is the revolving form of a rolling body; and as she discovers it she trembles like an aspen leaf.
“He comes,” mutters she.
Another cloud of dust; not in the south, but in the east.
Can it be an optical delusion, or another revolving figure? Ever and anon the sun gleams on something bright, which looks like the end of a cane.
A sickening sensation comes over the watcher.
“They both come!” says she; and turns her eyes northward.
What! Is it another optical delusion, or is this yet one more cloud in the north, which, as it approaches, also takes the semblance of a revolving figure? Hot as the weather is, she shivers sensibly, and, closing her parasol, mutters, her lips as white as driven snow—
“They all come!”