ABSTRACT
The moon rode low upon the sea as we slipped out into the night. The s.s. Africa sounded her syren once, twice, in the darkness like a voice that is repeated. We had started, and the hot night looked down, unsleeping and bright-eyed with stars. We had become a part of the immemorial trafficking of Araby, old as the Saaba incense highway, old as Solomon, sitting on his throne of ivory and beaten gold, the twelve lions standing ranged beneath him on the steps. . . .
