From me all fear, all apprehension, had fled. In their place was
nothing but joyous anticipation, a supernal freedom from even the
shadow of the shadow of care or sorrow; not now did anything
matter--Olaf or his haunted, hate-filled eyes; Throckmartin or his
fate--nothing of pain, nothing of agony, nothing of striving nor
endeavour nor despair in that wide outer world that had turned
suddenly to a troubled dream.

Once more the first great note pealed out! Once more it died and from
the clustered spheres a kaleidoscopic blaze shot as though drawn from
the majestic sound itself. The many-coloured rays darted across the
white waters and sought the face of the irised Veil. As they touched,
it sparkled, flamed, wavered, and shook with fountains of prismatic
colour.

The light increased--and in its intensity the silver air darkened.
Faded into shadow that white mosaic of flower-crowned faces set in the
amphitheatre of jet, and vast shadows dropped upon the high-flung
tiers and shrouded them. But on the skirts of the rays the fretted
stalls in which we sat with the fair-haired ones blazed out,
iridescent, like jewels.

I was sensible of an acceleration of every pulse; a wild stimulation
of every nerve. I felt myself being lifted above the world--close to
the threshold of the high gods--soon their essence and their power
would stream out into me! I glanced at Larry. His eyes were--wild--with
life!

I looked at Olaf--and in his face was none of this--only hate, and
hate, and hate.

The peacock waves streamed out over the waters, cleaving the seeming
darkness, a rainbow path of glory. And the Veil flashed as though all
the rainbows that had ever shone were burning within it. Again the
mighty sound pealed.

Into the centre of the Veil the light drew itself, grew into an
intolerable brightness--and with a storm of tinklings, a tempest of
crystalline notes, a tumult of tiny chimings, through it sped--the
Shining One!

Straight down that radiant path, its high-flung plumes of feathery
flame shimmering, its coruscating spirals whirling, its seven globes
of seven colours shining above its glowing core, it raced toward us.
The hurricane of bells of diamond glass were jubilant, joyous. I felt
O'Keefe grip my arm; Yolara threw her white arms out in a welcoming
gesture; I heard from the tier a sigh of rapture--and in it a
poignant, wailing under-tone of agony!

Over the waters, down the light stream, to the end of the iv