Tanit-Zerga was standing up. All about us, on our heads, the sun blazed on the hamada, burning it white.
Suddenly the child stretched out her arms. She gave a terrible cry.
"Gâo! There is Gâo!"
I looked at her.
"Gâo," she repeated. "Oh, I know it well! There are the trees and the fountains, the cupolas and the towers, the palm trees, the great red and white flowers. Gâo...."
Indeed, along the shimmering horizon rose a fantastic city with mighty buildings that towered, tier on tier, until they formed a rainbow. Wide-eyed, we stood and watched the terrible mirage quiver feverishly before us.
"Gâo!" I cried. "Gâo!"
And almost immediately I uttered another cry, of sorrow and of horror. Tanit-Zerga's little hand relaxed in mine. I had just time to catch the child in my arms and hear her murmur as in a whisper:
"
And then that will be the day of deliverance. The day of deliverance and of royalty."