In the four hundred and thirteenth year of the Christian Era, some
three hundred miles above Alexandria, the young monk Philammon was
sitting on the edge of a low range of inland cliffs, crested with
drifting sand. Behind him the desert sandwaste stretched, lifeless,
interminable, reflecting its lurid glare on the horizon of the
cloudless vault of blue. At his feet the sand dripped and trickled,
in yellow rivulets, from crack to crack and ledge to ledge, or
whirled past him in tiny jets of yellow smoke, before the fitful
summer airs. Here and there, upon the face of the cliffs which
walled in the opposite side of the narrow glen below, were
cavernous tombs, huge old quarries, with obelisks and half-cut
pillars, standing as the workmen had left them centuries before;
the sand was slipping down and piling up around them, their heads
were frosted with the arid snow; everywhere was silence, desolation
- the grave of a dead nation, in a dying land.
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