The artist unfolded the tattered blanket on which he had been seated and threw one-half of its length upon the sand, motioning to Perry to sit down. The boy did so, feeling the heat of the sun-warmed sand beneath him and, taking his cue from the artist, lapsed into silence. It was some time before Mad Quinward spoke. “Nearly five thousand years ago,” he said, in a low, thoughtful voice, “there came a wise man to the old city beside the Nile.” He stopped, and in the pause Perry felt himself slide into a reverie of life as it was in the days of the Pyramid-builders. “A Chaldæan mage he was, of the land where the seven-storied towers stood wherefrom men watched the stars.” And Perry, answering nothing, looked at the constellations. From where he lay, the studded belt of Orion gleamed directly over the Sphinx, and, as he watched the slow circling of the stars, he thought how they circled in the same path thousands of years ago. And so, through the evening, and into the night, artist and boy sat there, sat there till the sounds from the hotel died down; sat there till even the barking of the Egyptian dogs was stilled; sat there silently, save for a sentence now and then from the slowly-moving lips of the old artist. And gradually, by word and influence, Perry slipped his own aggressive personality and became at one with Egypt and the night. Little by little, the story wove itself into his brain, while the Sphinx and the Pyramids stayed moveless and the restless stars swung on. “He saw the follies of the temples and prophesied their fall—he stayed the Pharaoh in his chariot and mocked his power—he laughed to scorn the colossi of the gods—he flung in every face the eternal question: ‘What is Man sent on earth to do?’” Again came silence. “And Pharaoh led him to a mass of rock upon the desert—‘Carve there a Sphinx!’ he said, ‘with face like to mine own. Thou wert sent here to build my greatness, in spite of all thy wisdom.’” The stars swung slowly on. “For years he toiled— A thousand workmen quarried and labored at the body—the face was his alone— Always it was covered with a veil—Behind that veil he worked—within that veil he slept—and no man saw the graven face behind the veil.” Midnight had long gone by and the chill of a night half turned to morning numbed Perry to his bones, but he hardly dared to move, lest he should break the spirit that had gripped the watcher—the watcher who for twenty years and more had never failed to see the stars circle above the Sphinx. Almost an hour passed before the artist spoke again. “There came a day that all was finished— A runner went to Pharaoh, and the Pharaoh came— Over the figure’s face was still the veil— The sun shone pitilessly and the desert shimmered with the heat. “They tore away the veil—” Upon the dark desert settled an expectant hush. “Over Great Pharaoh, the Greater Sphinx smiled in a splendid mockery.