him to keep away the flies.  And from the market-place I came to a silver temple and then to a palace of onyx, and there were many wonders in Perdondaris, and I would have stayed and seen them all, but as I came to the outer wall of the city I suddenly saw in it a huge ivory gate.  For a while I paused and admired it, then I came nearer and perceived the dreadful truth.  The gate was carved out of one solid piece!

I fled at once through the gateway and down to the ship, and even as I ran I thought that I heard far off on the hills behind me the tramp of the fearful beast by whom that mass of ivory was shed, who was perhaps even then looking for his other tusk.  When I was on the ship again I felt safer, and I said nothing to the sailors of what I had seen.

And now the captain was gradually awakening.

Now night was rolling up from the East and North, and only the pinnacles of the towers of Perdondaris still took the fallen sunlight.  Then I went to the captain and told him quietly of the thing I had seen.  And he questioned me at once about the gate, in a low voice, that the sailors might not know; and I told him how the weight of the thing was such that it could not have been brought from afar, and the captain knew that it had not been there a year ago.  We agreed that such a beast could never have been killed by any assault of man, and that the gate must have been a fallen tusk, and one fallen near and recently.  Therefore he decided that it were better to flee at once; so he commanded, and the sailors went to the sails, and others raised the anchor to the deck, and just as the highest pinnacle of marble lost the last rays of the sun we left Perdondaris, that famous city.  And night came down and cloaked Perdondaris and hid it from our eyes, which as things have happened will never see it again; for I have heard since that something swift and wonderful has suddenly wrecked Perdondaris in a day—­towers, and walls, and people.

And the night deepened over the River Yann, a night all white with stars.  And with the night there rose the helmsman’s song.  As soon as he had prayed he began to sing to cheer himself all through the lonely night.  But first he prayed, praying the helmsman’s prayer.  And this is what I remember of it, rendered into English with a very feeble equivalent of the rhythm that seemed so resonant in those tropic nights.

To whatever god may hear.

Wherever there be sailors whether of river or sea:  whether their way be dark or whether through storm:  whether their peril be of beast or of rock:  or from enemy lurking on land or pursuing on sea:  wherever the tiller is cold or the helmsman stiff:  wherever sailors sleep or helmsmen watch:  guard, guide, and return us to the old land that has known us:  to the far homes that we know.

To all the gods that are.

To whatever god may hear.

* * * * *

So he prayed, and there was silence.  And the sailors laid them down to rest for the night.  The silence deepened, and was only broken by the ripples of Yann that lightly touched our prow.  Sometimes some monster of the river coughed.