As Felix Henriot came through the streets that January night the fog was stifling, but when he reached his little flat upon the top floor there came a sound of wind. Wind was stirring about the world. It blew against his windows, but at first so faintly that he hardly noticed it. Then, with an abrupt rise and fall like a wailing voice that sought to claim attention, it called him. He peered through the window into the blurred darkness, listening. There is no cry in the world like that of the homeless wind. But the adventure that lay waiting for him where the silent streets of little Helouan kiss the great Desert's lips was of a different kind to any Henriot had yet encountered. Looking back, he has often asked himself, "How in the world can I accept it?" And, perhaps, he never yet has accepted it. It was sand that brought it. For the Desert, the stupendous thing that mothers little Helouan, produced it.
