ng, as if the
light fell not from above, but rose from under their skin. We watch the
leaf which has fallen upon their shoulder, and it lies at the curve
of their neck, and a drop of dew glistens upon it like a jewel. They
approach us, and they stop, laughing, knowing what we think, and they
wait obediently, without questions, till it pleases us to turn and go
on.

We go on and we bless the earth under our feet. But questions come to
us again, as we walk in silence. If that which we have found is the
corruption of solitude, then what can men wish for save corruption? If
this is the great evil of being alone, then what is good and what is
evil?

Everything which comes from the many is good. Everything which comes
from one is evil. Thus we have been taught with our first breath. We
have broken the law, but we have never doubted it. Yet now, as we walk
the forest, we are learning to doubt.

There is no life for men, save in useful toil for the good of their
brothers. But we lived not, when we toiled for our brothers, we were
only weary. There is no joy for men, save the joy shared with all their
brothers. But the only things which taught us joy were the power created
in our wires, and the Golden One. And both these joys belong to us
alone, they come from us alone, they bear no relation to our brothers,
and they do not concern our brothers in any way. Thus do we wonder.

There is some error, one frightful error, in the thinking of men. What
is that error? We do not know, but the knowledge struggles within us,
struggles to be born.

Today, the Golden One stopped suddenly and said:

"We love you."

But then they frowned and shook their head and looked at us helplessly.

"No," they whispered, "that is not what we wished to say."

They were silent, then they spoke slowly, and their words were halting,
like the words of a child learning to speak for the first time:

"We are one... alone... and only... and we love you who are one...
alone... and only."

We looked into each other's eyes and we knew that the breath of a
miracle had touched us, and fled, and left us groping vainly.

And we felt torn, torn for some word we could not find.

Chapter Ten

We are sitting at a table and we are writing this upon paper made
thousands of years ago. The light is dim, and we cannot see the Golden
One, only one lock of gold on the pillow of an ancient bed. This is our
home.

We came upon it today, at sunrise. For many da