Then she roused herself from her long abstraction and looked through the window of her cabin, watching what seemed to be the gradual rising of the land towards the air-ship, showing in little green and brown patches like the squares of a chess-board,--then the houses and towns, tiny as children's toys--then the azure gleam of the sea and the boats dancing like bits of cork upon it,--then finally the plainer, broader view, wherein the earth with its woods and hills and rocky promontories appeared to heave up like a billow crowned with varying colours,--and so steadily, easily down to the pattern of grass and flowers from the centre of which the Palazzo d'Oro rose like a little white house for the abode of fairies.
"Well steered!" said Morgana, as the ship ran into its shed with the accuracy of a sword slipping into its sheath, and the soundless vibration of its mysterious motive-power ceased--"Home again safely!--and only away forty-eight hours! To the Sahara and back!--how far we have been, and what we have seen!" "WE have seen nothing"-- said Rivardi meaningly, as he assisted her to alight--"The seeing is all with YOU!" "And the believing!" she answered, smiling--"All my thanks to you both for your skilful pilotage.

You must be very tired--" here she gave her hand to them each in turn--"Again a thousand thanks! No air-ship could be better manned!" "Or woman'd ?" suggested Rivardi.
She laughed.
"IF you like! But I only steered while you slept.

That is nothing! Good night!" She left them, running up the garden path lightly like a child returning from a holiday, and disappeared.
"But that which she calls nothing"-- said Gaspard as he watched her go--"is everything!".