o was blind drew near, led by
the hand of a priest, for his hound might not enter the second court of
the temple.

"Do ye fear?" he cried. "Cowards, I fear not. It is better to look upon
the glory of the Hathor and die than to live and never see her more. Set
my face straight, ye priests, set my face straight, at the worst I can
but die."

So they led him as near the curtains as they dared to go and set his
face straight. Then with a great cry he rushed on. But he was caught and
whirled about like a leaf in a wind, so that he fell. He rose and again
rushed on, again to be whirled back. A third time he rose and rushed
on, smiting with his blind man's staff. The blow fell, and stayed in
mid-air, and there came a hollow sound as of a smitten shield, and the
staff that dealt the blow was shattered. Then there was a noise like the
noise of clashing swords, and the man instantly sank down dead, though
the Wanderer could see no wound upon him.

"Draw near! Draw near!" cried the priest again. "This one is fallen. Let
him who would win the Hathor draw near!"

Then the man who had fled from the host of the Apura rushed forward,
crying on the Lion of his tribe. Back he was hurled, and back again, but
at the third time once more there came the sound of clashing swords, and
he too fell dead.

"Draw near! Draw near!" cried the priest. "Another has fallen! Let him
who would win the Hathor draw near!"

And now man after man rushed on, to be first hurled back and then slain
of the clashing swords. And at length all were slain save the Wanderer
alone.

Then the priest spake:

"Wilt thou indeed rush on to doom, thou glorious man? Thou hast seen the
fate of many. Be warned and turn away."

"Never did I turn from man or ghost," said the Wanderer, and drawing
his short sword he came near, warily covering his head with his broad
shield, while the priests stood back to see him die. Now, the Wanderer
had marked that none were touched till they stood at the very threshold
of the doorway. Therefore he uttered a prayer to Aphrodite and came on
slowly till his feet were within a bow's length of the threshold, and
there he stood and listened. Now he could hear the very words of the
song that the Hathor sang as she wove at her loom. So dread and sweet
it was that for a while he thought no more on the Guardians of the Gate,
nor of how he might win the way, nor of aught save the song. For she
was singing shrill and clear in his own dear ton