Next morning when he woke， the cat was gone， the sun was already up， and the sand hot. Shasta， very thirsty， sat up and rubbed his eyes. The desert was blindingly white and， though there was a murmur of noises from the city behind him， where he sat everything was perfectly still. When he looked a little left and west， so that the sun was not in his eyes， he could see the mountains on the far side of the desert， so sharp and clear that they looked only a stone’s throw away. He particularly noticed one blue height that divided into two peaks at the top and decided that it must be Mount Pire. “That‘s our direction， judging by what the Raven said，” he thought， “so I’ll just make sure of it， so as not to waste any time when the others turn up.” So he made a good， deep straight furrow with his foot pointing exactly to Mount Pire.
