But the Phoenix did not die.  He was of different clay from these ordinary feathered creatures.  He was the glorious bird of the Sun, the only one, the gold-and-crimson one, who when he went abroad filled all creatures with awe of his beauty and wisdom and mystery, so that they dared not come near, but followed him afar off, hushing their song and adoring silently.  The Phoenix fed not on flowers or fruit or disgusting insect-fry, but on precious frankincense and myrrh and odoriferous gums.  And the Sun himself loved to caress his plumage of gold and crimson.

As for men, they also had adored him in time past, and had built temples in his honor.  They also were puny mortals, scarcely longer of life than the birds themselves.  The Phoenix had seen many generations of men grow up, do good or evil deeds, and die, sometimes leaving grand monuments upon the earth, sometimes disappearing from knowledge like the very birds, leaving scarcely a trace behind.

In his time great kings had lived and reigned and turned to dust.  Prophets had grown hoary, said their word, and passed away, leaving no echo.  Poets had sung and had died singing.  But the Phoenix, looking down from the palms of his desert, saw it all and did not die.

All this had been his pride and honor.  How he had enjoyed his strength, his beauty, his wisdom, and the knowledge that he was honored and adored by thousands who had never even seen his glory!  But now, now all was changed.  He was grown old and tired.  He felt his loneliness and he longed to die.

His wings were feeble.  Of late he had not dared to venture far from the desert.  He dreaded the curious gaze of the other birds, who would find his beauty dimmed, and would scorn, perchance, the faded glory which they had once held in awe.  For years he had not ventured within sight of men, and he knew that most of them had forgotten his existence, nay, even denied that he had ever lived.  He feared that there might not be a single heart in all the world that thrilled to his name.

Thinking thus mournfully, the Phoenix sat upon the top of the tallest palm.  His plumage of crimson and gold glowed in the last rays of the setting sun.  His head was drooping, and his eye lustreless.  The joy of life was gone.  Slowly the Sun sank towards the horizon, a red eye fixed upon the Phoenix steadily.  Suddenly across the gray waste of sand dotted a beam of light, intensely bright.  A single ray from that watchful Eye seemed to flame as it reached the palm tree and pierced to the very heart of the Phoenix.  A thrill ran through his body.  He drew himself together, and his eye gleamed with new lustre as he fixed it steadily upon the dazzling disk just touching the horizon.  Dark stood the palm against the desert, but the Phoenix was bathed in sudden light.  It was the signal, the signal for which he had been waiting, though he knew it not.  The five hundred years were ended.  The mystery of his life was about to be solved.