TWENTIETH EVENING
"I come Rome，"said the Moon."In the midst of the city，upon one of the seven hills，lie the ruins of the imperial palace.The wild fig-tree grows in the clefts of the wall，and covers the nakedness thereof with its broad grey-green leaves;trampling among heaps of rubbish，the ass treads upon green laurels，and re- joices over the rank thistles.From this spot，whence the eagles of Rome once flew abroad，whence they'came， saw，and conquered，'a door leads into a little mean house，built of clay between two broken marble pillars;
the wild vine hangs like a mourning garland over the crooked window.An old woman and her little grand- daughter live there：they rule now in the palace of the Caesars，and show to strangers the remains of its past glories.Of the splendid throne-room only a naked wall yet stands，and a black cypress throws its dark shadow on the spot where the throne once stood.The earth lies several feet deep on the broken pavement;and the little maiden，now the daughter of the imperial palace，often sits there on her stool when the evening bells ring.The keyhole of the door close by she calls her turret window;
through this she can see half Rome，as far as the mighty cupola of St.Peter's.
"On this evening，as usual，stillness reigned around;
and in the full beam of my light came the little grand- daughter.On her head she carried an earthen pitcher of antique shape filled with water.Her feet were bare，her short frock and her white sleeves were torn.I kissed her pretty round shoulders，her dark eyes，and black shining hair.She mounted the stairs;they were steep，having been made up of rough blocks of broken marble and the capital of a fallen pillar.The coloured lizards slipped away，star- tled，from before her feet，but she was not frightened at them.Already she lifted her hand to pull the doorbell—a hare's foot fastened to a string formed the bell-handle of the imperial palace.She paused for a moment—of what might she be thinking?Perhaps of the beautiful Christ- child，dressed in gold and silver，which was down below in the chapel，where the silver candlesticks gleamed so bright，and where her little friends sang the hymns in which she also could join?I know not.Presently she moved again—she stumbled;the earthen vessel fell from her head，and broke on the marble steps.She burst into tears.
The beautiful daughter of the imperial palace wept over the worthless broken pitcher;with her bare feet she stood there weeping，and dared not pull the string，the bell-rope of the imperial palace!"
TWENTY-FIRST EVENTING
It was more than a fortnight since the Moon had shone.Now he stood once more，round and bright，above the clouds，moving slowly onward.Hear what the Moon told me.
"From a town in Fezzan I followed a caravan.On the margin of the sandy desert，in a salt plain，that shone like a frozen lake，and was only covered in spots with light drifting sand，a halt was made.The eldest of the compa- ny—the water-gourd hung at his girdle，and by his head lay—a little bag of unleavened bread—drew a square in the 1336 sand with his staff，and wrote in it a few words out of the Koran，and then the whole caravan passed over the conse- crated spot.A young merchant，a child of the East，as I could tell by his eye and his figure，rode pensively for- ward on his white snorting steed.Was he thinking，Per- chance，of his fair young wife?It was only two days ago that the camel，adorned with furs and with costly shawls， had carried her，the beauteous bride，round the walls of the city，while drums and cymbals had sounded，the women sang，and festive shots，of which the bridegroom fired the greatest number，resounded round the camel;
and now he was journeying with the caravan across the desert.
"For many nights I followed the train.I saw them rest by the well-side among the stunted palms;they thrust the knife into the breast of the camel that had fallen，and roasted its flesh by the fire.My beams cooled the glowing sands，and showed them the black rocks，dead islands in the immense ocean of sand.No hostile tribes met them in their pathless route，no storms arose，no columns of sand whirled destruction over the journeying caravan.At home the beautiful wife prayed for her husband and her father.
'Are they dead?'she asked of my golden crescent;'Are they dead?'she cried to my full disk.Now the desert lies behind them.This evening they sit beneath the lofty palm-trees，where the crane flutters round them with its long wings，and the pelican watches them from the branches of the mimosa.The luxuriant herbage is tram- pled down，crushed by the feet of elephants.A troop of negroes are returning from a market in the interior of the land;the women，with copper buttons in their black hair， and decked out in clothes dyed with indigo，drive the heavily-laden oxen，on whose backs slumber the naked black children.A negro leads by a string a young lion which he has bought.They approach the caravan;the young merchant sits pensive and motionless，thinking of his beautiful wife，dreaming，in the land of the blacks，of his white fragrant lily beyond the desert.He raises his head，and—"
But at this moment a cloud passed before the Moon， and then another.I heard nothing more from him that evening.