The land of Goshen lay east and west, with a
slight divergence toward the north. The road to Tanis ran due north.
It was not long until Kenkenes' flying steed brought him in sight of
the un-Israelite Goshen. Illuminated windows starred the plain and the
wind shrilling in Kenkenes' ears bore uncanny sounds. A turf-thatched
hovel at the roadside showed a light as they swept by and a long scream
clove the air, but the Arab was not to be halted.
The murmurous wind did not soothe him, and the wakeful night had a
terror for him that he could not outrun. He veered sharply and
galloped through the pastures to avoid a roadside hamlet that shrieked
and moaned. He leaped irrigation canals and brush hedges, swept
through fields and gardens, until, at last, by dint of persuasion,
coupled with the animal's growing fatigue, Kenkenes succeeded in
drawing the horse down into a milder pace.
The young man made no effort to fathom the mysterious visitation.
Instead, he bowed his head and rode on, awed and humbled.
The night wore away and the gray of the morning showed him,
strange-featured, the misty levels, meadows, fields and gardens of
northern Goshen. The wind faltered and died; the stars, strewn down
the east, paled and went out, one by one.
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