First of all I have to retrace my steps, to return along the whole
avenue of rams, to pass again by the feet of the white giant, who has
already assumed his phantomlike appearance, while the violet waves
that bathed the town-mummy thicken and turn to a greyish-blue. And
then, leaving behind me the pylons guarded by the broken giants, I
thread my way among the palaces of the centre.
It is among these palaces that I encounter for good and all the night,
with the first cries of the owls and ospreys. It is still warm there,
on account of the heat stored by the stones during the day, but one
feels nevertheless that the air is freezing.
At a crossing a tall human figure looms up, draped in black and armed
with a baton. It is a roving Bedouin, one of the guards, and this more
or less is the dialogue exchanged between us (freely and succinctly
translated):
"Your permit, sir."
"Here it is."
(Here we combine our efforts to illuminate the said permit by the
light of a match.)
"Good, I will go with you."
"No. I beg of you."
"Yes; I had better. Where are you going?"
"Beyond, to the temple of that lady - you know, who is great and
powerful and has a face like a lioness."
"Ah!
