Soon it grew very dark, and she rode alongside of them to show them the path, but they did not talk much.  Wulf asked her who would take care of the inn while she was absent, to which she answered sharply that the inn would take care of itself, and no more.  Picking their way along the stony road at a slow amble, they crossed the bed of two streams then almost dry, till at length they heard running water sounding above that of the slow wash of the sea to their left, and Masouda bade them halt.  So they waited, until presently the moon rose in a clear sky, revealing a wide river in front, the pale ocean a hundred feet beneath them to the left, and to the right great mountains, along the face of which their path was cut.  So bright was it that Godwin could see strange shapes carven on the sheer face of the rock, and beneath them writing which he could not read.

“What are these?” he asked Masouda.

“The tablets of kings,” she answered, “whose names are written in your holy book, who ruled Syria and Egypt thousands of years ago.  They were great in their day when they took this land, greater even than Salah-ed-din, and now these seals which they set upon this rock are all that is left of them.”

Godwin and Wulf stared at the weather-worn sculptures, and in the silence of that moonlit place there arose in their minds a vision of the mighty armies of different tongues and peoples who had stood in their pride on this road and looked upon yonder river and the great stone wolf that guarded it, which wolf, so said the legend, howled at the approach of foes.  But now he howled no more, for he lay headless beneath the waters, and there he lies to this day.  Well, they were dead, everyone of them, and even their deeds were forgotten; and oh! how small the thought of it made them feel, these two young men bent upon a desperate quest in a strange and dangerous land.  Masouda read what was passing in their hearts, and as they came to the brink of the river, pointed to the bubbles that chased each other towards the sea, bursting and forming again before their eyes.

“Such are we,” she said briefly; “but the ocean is always yonder, and the river is always here, and of fresh bubbles there will always be a plenty.  So dance on life’s water while you may, in the sunlight, in the moonlight, beneath the storm, beneath the stars, for ocean calls and bubbles burst.  Now follow me, for I know the ford, and at this season the stream is not deep.  Pilgrim Peter, ride you at my side in case I should be washed from the saddle; and pilgrim John, come you behind, and if they hang back, prick the mules with your sword point.”