The ravine of the treasure
I remembered a fairy story of my childhood. The Prince's
Beloved had been carried off by a witch to Lapland and turned
into a plant of heather: she would be frozen by the winter
night if the word to disenchant her were not recalled: the
word was forgotten: alone on the moor in the dusk, with
the deadly night coming, the Prince could not distinguish,
among so many like her, the little plant he loved: he tried
word after word: only at the very last the right one came,
and the figure of his love rose up in the twilight.
But my word did not come. Whether I had not descended
far enough, or whether I missed the right place in that chaos
of rocks, I do not know. But the very last of my time was
up, and I dared not seek further. Somehow or other I must
scramble back up the ravine and try not to arouse suspicion.
So much time had gone already, that even if I now found
the cave, I should not be able to explore it. I turned to hurry
again, faster than ever I had climbed before, up the steep sides of
the ravine.
The two hours were up before I reached the grass of the
higher hollow. I saw Husein pass along the skyline, looking
for me, and squatted down a moment among the rocks while
he went by. Then I continued to race up, my ears filled with
the dramming of my heart and every step feeling like the
last effort of which I was capable. A little swarm of flies
which travelled with me, buzzing round my head, was almost
more than I could bear: they settled on my lips and rushed
down my throat whenever I opened my mouth in the effort
to breathe: I was too incapable of extra effort to brush them
away: I came to the conclusion that the want of moisture in
the neighbourhood made them such a nuisance: my lips were
the only moist objects thereabout, and they tried to setde on
them in crowds.
When I reached the top of the ridge again, I devoted five