God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories,

“then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing

conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!” Changeless and

hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.

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As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to

plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the

streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, the

ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of

the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no

people, and in some occupation of the hands is not so much as

suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here

and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points

his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or

authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who

sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.

Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all

things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with

a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with

drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some

so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such

glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Severa