shifting lights.'

And so they would not go down the winding roads, but essayed the path
upon the cliffs. 'It is narrow,' they said, 'it has no flowers, it is
full of rocks, but it is straight. It will lead us somewhere, not round
and round and round again--it will take us somewhere. And there is a
light,' they said, 'before us, the light of a star. It is very small
now, but it is always steady; it never flickers or wanes. It is the star
of Truth. Under that star we shall find that which we seek.'

And so they went upon their road, toiling upon the rocks, falling now
and then, bleeding with wounds from the sharp points, sore-footed, but
strong-hearted. And ever as they went they were farther and farther from
the forest, farther and farther from the glades and the flowers with
deadly scents; they heard less and less the crack of the whip of Time
falling upon the wanderers' shoulders.

The star grew nearer and nearer, the light grew greater and greater, the
false lights died behind them, until at last they came out of the
forest, and there they found the lake that washes away all desire under
the sun of Truth.

They had won their way. Time and Life and Fight and Struggle were behind
them, could not follow them, as they came, weary and footsore, into the
Great Peace.

And of those who were left behind, of those who stayed in the glades to
gather the deadly flowers, to be driven ever forward by the whip of
Time--what of them? Surely they will learn. The kindly whip of Time is
behind: he will never let them rest in such a deadly forest; they must
go ever forward; and as they go they grow more and more weary, the
glades are more and more distasteful, the heavy-scented blossoms more
and more repulsive. They will find out the thorns too. At first they
forgot the thorns in the flowers. 'The blossoms are beautiful,' they
said; 'what care we for the thorns? Nay, the thorns are good. It is a
pleasure to fight with them. What would the forest be without its
thorns? If we could gather the flowers and find no thorns, we should not
care for them. The more the thorns, the more valuable the blossoms.'

So they said, and they gathered the blossoms, and they faded. But the
thorns did not fade; they were ever there. The more blossoms a man had
gathered, the more thorns he had to wear, and Time was ever behind him.
They wanted to rest in the glades, but Time willed that ever they must
go forward; no going back, no rest, ever and ever o