German fiction -- Translations into English; Palestine -- History -- Fiction
Dense clouds of dust lay on the road and whirled around him, the sun beat
fiercely down on his bare head, his wound began to ache again, the fine
sand which filled the air entered his eyes and mouth and stung his face
and bare limbs like burning needles. He was tortured by thirst and was
often compelled to stop, his feet grew so heavy. At last he reached a
well dug for travelers by a pious Egyptian, and though it was adorned
with the image of a god and Miriam had taught him that this was an
abomination from which he should turn aside, he drank again and again,
thinking he had never tasted aught so refreshing.
The fear of losing consciousness, as he had done the day before, passed
away and, though his feet were still heavy, he walked rapidly toward the
alluring goal. But soon his strength again deserted him, the sweat
poured from his brow, his wound began to throb and beat, and he felt as
though his skull was compressed by an iron circle. His keen eyes, too,
failed, for the objects he tried to see blended with the dust of the
road, the horizon reeled up and down before his eyes, and he felt as
though the hard pavement had turned to a yielding bog under his feet.
Yet he took little heed of all these things, for never before had such
bright visions filled his mind. His thoughts grew marvellously vivid,
and image after image rose before the wide eyes of his soul, not at his
own behest, but as if summoned by a secret will outside of his
consciousness. Now he fancied that he was lying at Kasana's feet,
resting his head on her lap while he gazed upward into her lovely face--
anon he saw Hosea standing before him in his glittering armor, as he had
beheld him a short time ago, only his garb was still more gorgeous and,
instead of the dim light in the tent, a ruddy glow like that of fire
surrounded him. Then the finest oxen and rams in his herds passed before
him and sentences from the messages he had learned darted through his
mind; nay he sometimes imagined that they were being shouted to him
aloud. But ere he could grasp their import, some new dazzling vision or
loud rushing noise seemed to fill his mental eye and ear.
He pressed onward, staggering like a drunken man, with drops of sweat
standing on his brow and with parched mouth. Sometimes he unconsciously
raised his hand to wipe the dust from his burning eyes, but he cared
little that he saw very indistinctly what was passing around him, for
there could be nothing more beautiful than what he beheld with his inward
vision.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account