Again he got up and began running harder than ever after the flying mocking Mirage, and every time he stopped he fancied that he could see the figure again, sometimes like a pale blue shadow on the brightness; sometimes shining with its own excessive light, and sometimes only seen in outline, like a figure graved on glass, and always vanishing when looked at steadily.
Perhaps that white water-like glitter of the Mirage was like a looking-glass, and he was only chasing his own reflection.

I cannot say, but there it was, always before him, a face as of a beautiful boy, with tumbled hair and laughing lips, its figure clothed in a fluttering dress of lights and shadows.

It also seemed to beckon to him with its hand, and encourage him to run on after it with its bright merry glances.
[Illustration: ] At length when it was past the hour of noon, Martin sat down under a small bush that gave just shade enough to cover him and none to spare.
It was only a little spot of shade like an island in a sea of heat and brightness.

He was too hot and tired to run more, too tired even to keep his eyes open, and so, propping his back against the stem of the small bush, he closed his tired hot eyes..