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Updated: May 29, 2025
"Not to me," said Miss Barrison, softly. The professor looked at her. "Ah, child! Ever subtler, ever surer the Eternal Enigma is no enigma to you." "What is the Sphyx?" I asked. "Have you read De Soto? Or Goya?" "Yes, both. I remember now that De Soto records the Syachas legend of the Sphyx something about a goddess " "Not a goddess," said Miss Barrison, her lips touched with a smile.
Her personal indignation at the caged Sphyx flared out at unexpected intervals, and there could be no doubt that her unhappiness and resentment were becoming morbid. I spent an hour or two in the smoking compartment, tenanted only by a single passenger and myself.
"Sometimes," said the professor, gently. "And Goya said: "'It has come to my ears while in the lands of the Syachas that the Sphyx surely lives, as bolder and more curious men than I may, God willing, prove to the world hereafter." "But what is the Sphyx?" I insisted. "For centuries wise men and savants have asked each other that question.
He passed his hand over his protruding forehead, lost for a moment in deepest reflection. Then, "Have you ever heard of the Sphyx?" he asked. "It seems to me that Ponce de Leon wrote of something " I began, hesitating. "Yes, the famous lines in the third volume which have set so many wise men guessing. This is the Sphyx." A silence; then I said, "Those lines are meaningless to me."
Then, slowly, there in the sunshine, a misty something grew in the cage a glistening, pearl-tinted phantom, imperceptibly taking shape in space vague at first as a shred of lake vapor, then lengthening, rounding into flowing form, clearer, clearer. "The Sphyx!" gasped the professor. "In the name of Heaven, play that hose!" As he spoke the treacherous hose burst.
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