With hearts beating and eyes bright we started forth on the road to Arles, bearing our gifts of welcome, cakes for the Kings, figs for the boy pages, sweet hay for the tired camels. The wind blew cold, the robin and wren hopped shivering in the branches of the leafless trees. The fields were empty except for perhaps an old woman picking up sticks, or a ragged snail-gatherer under the hedge.
“Where are you going so late, my little ones?” some one would ask.
“We go to meet the Kings,” we said, singing and laughing, sliding and running along the white, wind-swept road. But the daylight faded, the black, pointed cypress trees hid the bell-tower of Maillane, and the long, white road stretched away empty.... Then we met a shepherd, his long, brown cloak held tight around him.
“Have you seen the Kings? Are they still a long way off?”
“Ah! the Kings! You should see them soon. They are not so far away.”
Then we set off running again, with our gifts for the Kings and the pages, and handfuls of hay for the camels. The bravest of us flagged a little as a great cloud over the mountain hid the sun, when suddenly a flash of golden splendor and a glory of yellow and crimson shone just where the white road curved from behind the mountain.
“The Kings! The Kings! See their mantles! See the banners! They are coming.”
And so we stood amazed; but instead of growing brighter as if the Kings were coming nearer, the glory faded with the sunset and we found ourselves alone in the dark highway.
“Which way did the Kings go?”
“They have gone behind the mountain.”