crept from the covert of remorse, he took
a guide to start him in the right trail, and began his journey to the
Valley, whither she had gone before him, though he knew it not. From
the moment that his guide left him dangers beset him, and those spirits
called the Mockers, which are the evil deeds of a man crying to Heaven,
came crying about him from the dead white trees, breathing through
the powdery air, whistling down the moonlight; so that to cheer him he
called out again and again, like any heathen:

"Keeper, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills!
I am as a dog in the North Sea,
I am as a bat in a cave,
As a lizard am I on a prison wall,
As a tent with no pole,
As a bird with one wing;
I am as a seal in the desert,
I am as a wild horse alone.
O Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills!
Thou hast an arm like a shooting star,
Thou hast an eye like the North Sky fires,
Thou hast a pouch for the hungry,
Thou hast a tent for the lost:
Hear me, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills!"

And whether or not this availed him, who can tell? There be many names
of the One Thing, and the human soul hath the same north and south, if
there be any north and south and east and west, save in the words of
men. But something availed; and one day a footworn traveller, entering
the Valley at the southmost corner, laid his cap and bag, moccasins,
bow and arrow, and an iron weapon away in a hollow log, seeing not that
there were also another bag and cap, and a pair of moccasins there.
Then, barefooted and bareheaded, he marched slowly up the Valley, and
all its loveliness smote him as a red iron is buffeted at the forge;
and an exquisite agony coursed through his veins, so that he cried out,
hiding his face. And yet he needs must look and look, all his sight
aching with this perfection, never overpowering him, but keeping him
ever in the relish of his torture.

At last he came to the door of the Tent in the late evening, and, intent
not only to buy back the soul he had marketed--for the sake of the
memory of the woman, and believing that none would die for him and that
he must die for himself--he lifted the curtain and entered. Then he gave
a great cry, for there she lay asleep, face downward, her forehead on
the Purple Mat.

"Sherah! Sherah!" he cried, dropping on his knees beside her and lifting
up her head.

"Ambroise!" she called out faint