Thus should have been our travels: serious, engravable. The Seven Wonders of the World are tired and a touch familiar, but the other scenes, innumerable, though equally sad and still, are foreign. Often the squatting Arab, or group of Arabs, plotting, probably, against our Christian Empire, while one apart, with outstretched arm and hand points to the Tomb, the Pit, the Sepulcher. The branches of the date-palms look like files. The cobbled courtyard, where the Well is dry, is like a diagram, the brickwork conduits are vast and obvious, the human figure far gone in history or theology, gone with its camel or its faithful horse. Always the silence, the gesture, the specks of birds suspended on invisible threads above the Site, or the smoke rising solemnly, pulled by threads. Granted a page alone or a page made up of several scenes arranged in cattycornered rectangles or circles set on stippled gray, granted a grim lunette, caught in the toils of an initial letter, when dwelt upon, they all resolve themselves. The eye drops, weighted, through the lines the burin made, the lines that move apart like ripples above sand, dispersing storms, God's spreading fingerprint, and painfully, finally, that ignite in watery prismatic white-and-blue. Entering the Narrows at St. Johns the touching bleat of goats reached to the ship. We glimpsed them, reddish, leaping up the cliffs among the fog-soaked weeds and butter-and-eggs. And at St. Peter's the wind blew and the sun shone madly. Rapidly, purposefully, the Collegians marched in lines, crisscrossing the great square with black, like ants. In Mexico the dead man lay in a blue arcade; the dead volcanoes glistened like Easter lilies. The jukebox went on playing "Ay, Jalisco!" And at Volubilis there were beautiful poppies splitting the mosaics; the fat old guide made eyes. In Dingle harbor a golden length of evening the rotting hulks held up their dripping plush. The Englishwoman poured tea, informing us that the Duchess was going to have a baby. And in the brothels of Marrakesh the little pockmarked prostitutes balanced their tea-trays on their heads and did their belly-dances; flung themselves naked and giggling against our knees, asking for cigarettes. It was somewhere near there I saw what frightened me most of all: A holy grave, not looking particularly holy, one of a group under a keyhole-arched stone baldaquin open to every wind from the pink desert. An open, gritty, marble trough, carved solid with exhortation, yellowed as scattered cattle-teeth; half-filled with dust, not even the dust of the poor prophet paynim who once lay there. In a smart burnoose Khadour looked on amused. Everything only connected by "and" and "and." Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.) Open the heavy book. Why couldn't we have seen this old Nativity while we were at it? --the dark ajar, the rocks breaking with light, an undisturbed, unbreathing flame, colorless, sparkless, freely fed on straw, and, lulled within, a family with pets, --and looked and looked our infant sight away.