d intrinsically unaltered, but shivered into a million
fragments. These were the green corpuscles. In passing through
Crystalman they had escaped absorption by reason of their extreme
minuteness. The other part of the stream had not escaped. Its fire had
been abstracted, its cement was withdrawn, and, after being fouled
and softened by the horrible sweetness of the host, it broke into
individuals, which were the whirls of living will.

Nightspore shuddered. He comprehended at last how the whole world of
will was doomed to eternal anguish in order that one Being might feel
joy.

Presently he set foot on the final flight leading to the roof; for he
remembered vaguely that now only that remained.

Halfway up, he fainted--but when he recovered consciousness he persisted
as though nothing had happened to him. As soon as his head was above the
trap, breathing the free air, he had the same physical sensation as a
man stepping out of water. He pulled his body up, and stood expectantly
on the stone-floored roof, looking round for his first glimpse of
Muspel.

There was nothing.

He was standing upon the top of a tower, measuring not above fifteen
feet each way. Darkness was all around him. He sat down on the stone
parapet, with a sinking heart; a heavy foreboding possessed him.

Suddenly, without seeing or hearing anything, he had the distinct
impression that the darkness around him, on all four sides, was
grinning.... As soon as that happened, he understood that he was wholly
surrounded by Crystalman's world, and that Muspel consisted of himself
and the stone tower on which he was sitting..

Fire flashed in his heart.... Millions upon millions of grotesque,
vulgar, ridiculous, sweetened individuals--once Spirit--were calling out
from their degradation and agony for salvation from Muspel.... To
answer that cry there was only himself... and Krag waiting below... and
Surtur--But where was Surtur?

The truth forced itself on him in all its cold, brutal reality. Muspel
was no all-powerful Universe, tolerating from pure indifference the
existence side by side with it of another false world, which had no
right to be. Muspel was fighting for its life--against all that is most
shameful and frightful--against sin masquerading as eternal beauty,
against baseness masquerading as Nature, against the Devil masquerading
as God....

Now he understood everything. The moral combat was no mock one, no
Valhalla, where warriors are cut