The individual whirls were
jostling and fighting with, and even devouring, each other. This created
pain, but, whatever pain they felt, it was always pleasure that they
sought. Sometimes the green sparks were strong enough for a moment to
move a little way in the direction of Muspel; the whirls would then
accept the movement, not only without demur, but with pride and
pleasure, as if it were their own handiwork--but they never saw beyond
the Shadow, they thought that they were travelling toward it. The
instant the direct movement wearied them, as contrary to their whirling
nature, they fell again to killing, dancing, and loving.

Nightspore had a foreknowledge that the sixth window would prove to
be the last. Nothing would have kept him from ascending to it, for
he guessed that the nature of Crystalman himself would there become
manifest. Every step upward was like a bloody life-and-death struggle.
The stairs nailed him to the ground; the air pressure caused blood to
gush from his nose and ears; his head clanged like an iron bell. When
he had fought his way up a dozen steps, he found himself suddenly at the
top; the staircase terminated in a small, bare chamber of cold stone,
possessing a single window. On the other side of the apartment another
short flight of stairs mounted through a trap, apparently to the roof of
the building. Before ascending these stairs, Nightspore hastened to the
window and stared out.

The shadow form of Crystalman had drawn much closer to him, and filled
the whole sky, but it was not a shadow of darkness, but a bright shadow.
It had neither shape, nor colour, yet it in some way suggested the
delicate tints of early morning. It was so nebulous that the sphere
could be clearly distinguished through it; in extension, however, it
was thick. The sweet smell emanating from it was strong, loathsome,
and terrible; it seemed to spring from a sort of loose, mocking slime
inexpressibly vulgar and ignorant.

The spirit stream from Muspel flashed with complexity and variety. It
was not below individuality, but above it. It was not the One, or the
Many, but something else far beyond either. It approached Crystalman,
and entered his body--if that bright mist could be called a body. It
passed right through him, and the passage caused him the most exquisite
pleasure. The Muspel-stream was Crystalman's food. The stream emerged
from the other side on to the sphere, in a double condition. Part of
it reappeare