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"I see a great cloud of dust moving this way," said Sister Anne. “How old are you now, Bob? Seventeen, isn’t it? Yes, yes, of course. And in a week or two you will have finished with Crossways for good?” The servants, who had been sent in pursuit, returned to the castle without any satisfactory information. Week after week elapsed in fruitless search, yet the duke was strenuous in continuing the pursuit. Emissaries were dispatched to Naples, and to the several estates of the Count Vereza, but they returned without any satisfactory information. The count had not been heard of since he quitted Naples for Sicily..
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Having come to this decision, she was now conducted by her brothers to their castle; the peacock had to be brought and put into her room, so fond was she of it. All the Court ladies who had not before seen Rosette now hastened to greet her, and pay their respects to her. Some brought preserves with them, some sugar, and others dresses of woven gold, beautiful ribbons, dolls, embroidered shoes, pearls, and diamonds. Everyone did their best to entertain her, and she was so well brought up, so courteous, kissing their hands, curtseying when anything beautiful was given to her, that there was not a lord or lady who did not leave her presence gratified and charmed. While she was thus occupied, the King and the Prince were turning over in their minds how they should find the King of the Peacocks, if there was such a person in the world to be found. They decided that they would have Rosette's portrait painted; and when completed it was so life-like, that only speech was wanting. Then they said to her, "Since you will marry no one but the King of the Peacocks, we are going together to look for him, and will traverse the whole world to try and find him for you. If we find him, we shall be very glad. Meanwhile take care of our kingdom until we return." “I guess so,” answered the other. “It’s got to be done.” Jerry recognized the type at once. It was a desert rat, one of those old men who, lured by the dream of gold, haunt the desert, usually alone. Years pass over their heads in the search which never ends. At last the gold mine that they will find some day becomes merely the excuse not the aim of the unending pilgrimage. The desert, the loneliness is claiming them. If they found a mine worth the developing, probably they would sell it and blow in the proceeds and be off again as soon as possible. They have been too long away from civilization for anything to surprise them. The desert is mysterious, the loneliness makes everything possible. The distant torrent's melancholy note.
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