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To those in search of assurance the words of the Father are as a fountain in the desert after long wandering.” “The beautiful truth of Bahá’u’lláh,” she wrote to Martha Root, “is with me always, a help and an inspiration. What I wrote was because my heart overflowed with gratitude for the reflection you brought me. I am happy if you think I helped.
The traveler in the Arizona desert, for example, has been jogging across a gravelly plain studded at intervals of a few yards with little bushes a foot high. The scenery is so monotonous and the noon sunshine so warm that he almost falls asleep. When he wakes from his daydream, so weird are his surroundings that he thinks he must be in one of the places to which Sindbad was carried by the roc.
He had followed a trail that might have been ten years old; perhaps, in the years to come, some other wanderer would see his tracks, halting, staggering, uncertain, blazing the ancient call of the desert: "Come to me or I perish." And following the trail, even as the Desert Rat had followed this other, he, too, in his own time, would come at length to the finish and wonder.
He put on the saddle and rode off to the south, galloping rapidly after he reached the highway. Off there was a kindly desert where a man could take in peace such punishment as his body could bear and his soul decree; and where that soul could then pass on in decent privacy to be judged by its Maker. The Picture in the Sky
At that time the Khalifa and the Chasseur met in many a skirmish; hot, desperate struggles, where men fought horse to horse, hand to hand; midnight frays, when, in the heart of lonely ravines, Arab ambuscades fell on squadrons of French cavalry; terrible chases through the heat of torrid suns, when the glittering ranks of the charging troops swept down after the Bedouins' flight; fiery combats, when the desert sand and the smoke of musketry circled in clouds above the close-locked struggle, and the Leopard of France and the Lion of Sahara wrestled in a death-grip.
In springtime the deep-rooted mesquites and palo verdes threw out the golden halo of their flowers until the cañons were aflame; the soggy sahuaros drank a little at each sparse downpour and defied the drought; all the world of desert plants flaunted their pigmented green against the barren sky as if in grim contempt; but the little streams ran weaker and weaker, creeping along under the sand to escape the pitiless sun.
Antipas turned to her reflectively, but it was of another that he thought—the brown-eyed bride that Arabia had given him, the lithe-limbed princess of the desert whose heart had beaten on his own, whom he had loved with all the strength of youth and weakness, and whom he had deserted while at Rome for his brother’s wife, his own niece, Herodias, who snarled at his side.
They might even bring the Mahdi back in a cage, perhaps, before those following the river would have a chance of distinguishing themselves. They need not have distressed themselves; there would be plenty of hard fighting for all. You might as well know how our friend Reginald Kavanagh was dressed when he mounted his camel for the desert ride.
Do you think this man will support you, stick to you? He won't, he'll desert you, and you'll have to go on the streets." A dangerous light grew in Lise's eyes. "He's as good as any other man, he's as good as Ditmar," she said. "They're all the same, to girls like us." Janet's heart caught, it seemed to stop beating. Was this a hazard on Lise's part, or did she speak from knowledge?
"I got into the desert, and had hard times awful for a while. I hadn't enough to eat, and I didn't know whether I'd die by hunger, or fever, or Indians or snakes." "Oh, you were seeing snakes!" said Tim grimly. "Not the kind you mean; I hadn't anything to drink " "No, you never did drink, I remember just was crooked, and slopped over women. Well, about the snakes?"
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