The traveller ceased to speak.  For a long time the clear stars, sisters of Babbulkund, had shone upon him speaking, the desert wind had arisen and whispered to the sand, and the sand had long gone secretly to and fro; none of us had moved, none of us had fallen asleep, not so much from wonder at his tale as from the thought that we ourselves in two days’ time should see that wondrous city.  Then we wrapped our blankets around us and lay down with our feet towards the embers of our fire and instantly were asleep, and in our dreams we multiplied the fame of the City of Marvel.

The sun arose and flamed upon our faces, and all the desert glinted with its light.  Then we stood up and prepared the morning meal, and, when we had eaten, the traveller departed.  And we commended his soul to the god of the land whereto he went, of the land of his home to the northward, and he commended our souls to the God of the people of the land wherefrom we had come.  Then a traveller overtook us going on foot; he wore a brown cloak that was all in rags and he seemed to have been walking all night, and he walked hurriedly but appeared weary, so we offered him food and drink, of which he partook thankfully.  When we asked him where he was going, he answered ‘Babbulkund.’  Then we offered him a camel upon which to ride, for we said, ‘We also go to Babbulkund.’  But he answered strangely: 

’Nay, pass on before me, for it is a sore thing never to have seen Babbulkund, having lived while yet she stood.  Pass on before me and behold her, and then flee away at once, returning northwards.’

Then, though we understood him not, we left him, for he was insistent, and passed on our journey southwards through the desert, and we came before the middle of the day to an oasis of palm trees standing by a well and there we gave water to the haughty camels and replenished our water-bottles and soothed our eyes with the sight of green things and tarried for many hours in the shade.  Some of the men slept, but of those that remained awake each man sang softly the songs of his own country, telling of Babbulkund.  When the afternoon was far spent we travelled a little way southwards, and went on through the cool evening until the sun fell low and we encamped, and as we sat in our encampment the man in rags overtook us, having travelled all the day, and we gave him food and drink again, and in the twilight he spoke, saying: 

’I am the servant of the Lord the God of my people, and I go to do his work on Babbulkund.  She is the most beautiful city in the world; there hath been none like her, even the stars of God go envious of her beauty.  She is all white, yet with streaks of pink that pass through her streets and houses like flames in the white mind of a sculptor, like desire in Paradise.  She hath been carved of old out of a holy hill, no slaves wrought the City of Marvel, but artists toiling at the work they loved.  They took no pattern from the houses of men, but each