maybe they were all a dream that we woke in the middle of. Let us lie down and sleep that we may dream again."

But Marco Polo would not let them lie down, for to lie down was death. But he drove them onward. And again they complained: "Surely God never saw this place that He left it so terrible. Surely He was never here. He was never here."

And now that their minds were pitched to the height of madness, the warlocks of the desert took shape and jeered at them, and the white-sheeted ghosts flitted alongside of them, and the goblins of the Gobi harried them from behind. And the sun was like dull copper through the haze, and the moon like a guttering candle, and stars there were none.

And when the moon was at its full, they came to the Hill of the Bell. And through the night the Bell went gongh, gongh, gongh, until they could feel it in every fiber of their bodies, and their skin itched to screaming with it. They would stop their ears. But they would hear it in the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet. Gongh, gongh, gongh.

And when they left the Hill of the Bell there were only six of the caravan left, and a multitude of white-sheeted ghosts. And the caravan plodded onward dully. And now the warlocks of the desert played another cruelty. Afar off they would put a seeming of a lake, and the travelers would press on gladly, crying: "There is water! water! God lives! God lives!" But there was only sand. And now it would be a green vision, and they would cry: "We have come to the edge of the desert. After the long night, dawn. God lives! God lives!" But there

would be only sand, sand. And now it would be a city of shining domes in the distance. And they would nudge one another and croak, "There are men there, brother, secure streets, and merchants in their booths; people to talk with, and water for our poor throats." But there would be only sand, sand, sand. . And they would cry like children. "God is dead! Have n't you heard? Don't you know? God is dead in His heaven, and the warlocks are loosed on the land!"

And on the last day of the moon they were all but in sight of the desert's edge, though they did n't know. And the goblins and the warlocks took counsel, for they were now afraid Marco and his few people would escape. They gathered together and they read the runes of the Flowing Sand.

And suddenly the camels rushed screaming into the desert with sudden panic, and a burning wind came, and the sands rose, and the desert heeled like a ship, and the day became night.

And young Marco Polo could stand no more. That was the end, the end of him, the end of the world, the end of everything. There was red darkness everywhere, and he could see nobody. "O my Lord Jesus!" he cried. "O little Golden Bells!" The wind boomed like an organ. The sand screamed. "O my Lord Jesus! little Golden Bells!" And the voices of his father and uncle were like the tweeting birds. "Where's the lad, Matthew? Where's our lad?" "Mark, Mark, where have you got to? Lad of our heart, where are you?" But they could n't find each other. The sand buffeted them like shuttlecocks. "Boy Mark!" The sand snarled like a dog; the wind hammered like drums. "O

Golden Bells! O little Golden Bells! O my Lord Jesus, must it end here?" And the fight went out of him, and a big sob broke in him, and he lay down to die

XII

I shall now tell you of Golden Bells, and her in the Chinese garden.

XIII

I would have you now see her as I see her, standing before Li Po, the great poet, in her green costume. And Li Po, big, fat, with sad eyes and a twisted mouth, uncomfortable as be damned. The sun shone in the garden, the butterflies, the red and black and golden butterflies, flitted from blossom to blossom. And the bees droned. And on the banks of the green lake the kingfisher tunneled his wee house, and the wind shook the blossoms of the apple-trees. And Li Po sat on the marble slab and was very uncomfortable. And in a dark bower was Sanang, the magician, brooding like an owl. And Golden Bells stood before Li Po, and there were hurt tears in her eyes.

"Did my father or I ever do anything to you, Li Po, that you should make a song such as they sing in the market-place?"

"What song?"

"The Song of the Cockatoo."
"I don't remember."

"I'll remind you, Li Po. "There alighted on the balcony of the King of Annam,' the song goes, 'a red cockatoo. It was colored as a peach-treeblossom and it spoke the tongue of men. And the King of Annam did to it what is always done to the learned and eloquent. He took a cage with

stout bars, and shut it up inside.' And was n't that the cruel thing to write! And are you so imprisoned here, Li Po? Ah, Li Po, I'm thinking hard of you, I'm thinking hard."

"Well, now, Golden Bells, to tell you the truth, there was no excuse for it. But oftentimes I do be feeling sad, and thinking of the friends of my youth who are gone. Yuan Chen, who might have been a better poet nor me if he had been spared; and H'sienyang and Li Chien, too. Ah, they were great poets, Golden Bells. They never sang a poor song, Golden Bells, that they might wear a fine coat. And they 'd write what was true, wee mistress, were all the world to turn from them. And I'm the laureate now, the court singer, living in my glory, and they 're dead with their dreams. I'm the last of the seven minstrels. And, wee Golden Bells, I do be thinking long.

"And sometimes an old woman in the street or a man with gray in his hair will lift a song, and before the words come to me, there's a pain in my heart.

"And I go down to the drinkingbooths, and the passion of drinking comes on me-a fury against myself and a fury against the world. And the folk do be following me to see will I let drop one gem of verse that they

can tell their grandchildren they heard from the lips of Li Po. And when my heart is high with the drinking, I take a lute from a traveling poet, and not knowing what I'm saying, I compose the song. Out of fallow sorrow bloom the little songs. You must n't be hard on an old man, wee Golden Bells, and he thinking long for his dead friends."

"Ah, poor Li Po," she said, and she had grown all soft again. "Is it so terrible to be old?".

"Now you asked me a question, Golden Bells, and I'll give you an answer. Besides, it 's part of my duties to teach you wisdom. Now, it is not a terrible thing, at all, at all, to be old... I see the young folk start out in life, and before them there 's the showers of April, there 's wind and heat and thunder and lightning. But I'm in warm, brown October, and all of it's gone by me. And in a little while I'll sleep, and 't is I need it, God help me! The old don't sleep much, wee Golden Bells, so 't is a comfort to look forward to one's rest after the hardness of the world. In a hundred or more years or five hundred, just as the fancy takes me, I'll wake up for a while and wander down the world to hear the people singing my songs, and then I'll go back to my sleep."

And she was going to ask him another question when the Sanang came up. The magician was a thick man with merry eyes and a cruel mouth.

"Golden Bells," he says, "there's rare entertainmant glass."

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been rare sport. I knew it would come to this."

"Could n't you save him, Sanang?" she cried. "O Sanang, he's so young, and he set out to come to us. Could not you save him?"

"Well, I might." Sanang was not pleased. "It'll be a while before the shadow comes out of him. But it would be rare sport to watch and to see the warlocks and the ghouls and the goblins set on it the way terriers do be setting on an otter."

"Oh, save him, Sanang! Save him!" "Now, Golden Bells, I might be able to save, and again I might n't," said Sanang.

"Save him, Sanang!" Li Po broke in. "Save him the way the wee one wants. For if you don't, Sanang, I'll write a song about you that 'll be remembered for generations, and they will point out your grandchildren and your grandchildren's grandchildren, and they'll laugh and sing Li Po's song:

""There was a fat worm who considered himself a serpent-""

"Oh, now, Li Po, for God's sake, let you not be composing poems on me,

the bitter tongue. nd I'll save him. eeper of the khan's

or the keeper, and sage to be put on