CHAPTER XIV
THE MAN IN SADDLE
COLOR of night was draining out of the sky when the riders took horses again at the foot of the Sphinx. Black and white were rolled in gray, shadows were melting thin, the moon had drifted far down the west, constellations were sinking. All the luster, all the full pulse of midnight were flowing out; and the pulses of the man too were at ebb. His blood ran thin. The sky stood dim and luminous at the hour of neither moon nor sun; and his mind stood between thought and action, dim, dreamy with amazement beyond piercing. If conscious thought had turned upon itself it would not have known what forms were taking shape in the unconscious depth. Memories shone upon the surface, disappeared and appeared again—Son of the Wind as he had advanced down the slope toward the water, sides of silk for knees that dared to press them, head bent waywardly sidewise, at play with its own liberty, and the slow undulation of the mane.
Where had the creature hidden himself between
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