The whole heart is sick,
And the whole life is weary:
There rides an island in the central sea.
Lord of the island,
Lo! the Magician;
He knows the secret,
He hath the key.
“What is it?” cried Burke. “Where is it?”
Hereupon he set off running in the direction whence the singing had appeared to come. I followed; but I run lurching to this side and that like a drunken man.
We came within a thick wood. Suddenly I, who had taken no thought of the way hitherto, espied close at hand a curious triad of palm trees which I remembered to have seen before.