Oh, I don't want to go there at all, now.

L. You would like it very much indeed, Florrie, if you were there. The
serpents would not bite you; the only fear would be of your turning into
one!

FLORRIE. Oh, dear, but that's worse.

L. You wouldn't think so if you really were turned into one, Florrie;
you would be very proud of your crest. And as long as you were yourself
(not that you could get there if you remained quite the little Florrie
you are now), you would like to hear the serpents sing. They hiss a
little through it, like the cicadas in Italy; but they keep good time,
and sing delightful melodies; and most of them have seven heads, with
throats which each take a note of the octave; so that they can sing
chords--it is very fine indeed. And the fire-flies fly round the edge of
the forests all the night long; you wade in fire-flies, they make the
fields look like a lake trembling with reflection of stars; but you must
take care not to touch them, for they are not like Italian fireflies,
but burn, like real sparks.

FLORRIE. I don't like it at all; I'll never go there.

L. I hope not, Florrie; or at least that you will get out again if you
do. And it is very difficult to get out, for beyond these serpent
forests there are great cliffs of dead gold, which form a labyrinth,
winding always higher and higher, till the gold is all split asunder by
wedges of ice; and glaciers, welded, half of ice seven times frozen, and
half of gold seven times frozen, hang down from them, and fall in
thunder, cleaving into deadly splinters, like the Cretan arrowheads; and
into a mixed dust of snow and gold, ponderous, yet which the mountain
whirlwinds are able to lift and drive in wreaths and pillars, hiding the
paths with a burial cloud, fatal at once with wintry chill, and weight
of golden ashes. So the wanderers in the labyrinth fall, one by one, and
are buried there:--yet, over the drifted graves, those who are spared
climb to the last, through coil on coil of the path;--for at the end of
it they see the king of the valley, sitting on his throne: and beside
him (but it is only a false vision), spectra of creatures like
themselves, set on thrones, from which they seem to look down on all the
kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them. And on the canopy of his
throne there is an inscription in fiery letters, which they strive to
read, but cannot; for it is written in words which are like the words of
all languages, and yet are