ere was already
quite a throng of people all going in the same direction. And when we
came to the Source, which flowed from an opening in a cliff, almost like
a chamber hewn in the rock, and made a little garden of wild-flowers
around it as it fell, I heard the music of many voices and the beautiful
name of him who had given his life to find the forgotten spring.

Then we came down again, singly and in groups, following the river. It
seemed already more bright and full and joyous. As we passed through
the gardens I saw men turning aside to make new channels through fields
which were not yet cultivated. And as we entered the city I saw the
wheels of the mills that ground the corn whirling more swiftly, and the
maidens coming with their pitchers to draw from the brimming basins at
the street corners, and the children laughing because the marble pools
were so full that they could swim in them. There was plenty of water
everywhere.

For many weeks I stayed in the city of Saloma, going up the
mountain-path in the morning, and returning to the day of work and the
evening of play. I found friends among the people of the city, not only
among those who walked together in the visitation of the Source, but
also among those who remained behind, for many of them were kind
and generous, faithful in their work, and very pleasant in their
conversation.

Yet there was something lacking between me and them. I came not onto
firm ground with them, for all their warmth of welcome and their
pleasant ways. They were by nature of the race of those who dwell ever
in one place; even in their thoughts they went not far abroad. But I
have been ever a seeker, and the world seems to me made to wander in,
rather than to abide in one corner of it and never see what the rest has
in store. Now this was what the people of Saloma could not understand,
and for this reason I seemed to them always a stranger, an alien, a
guest. The fixed circle of their life was like an invisible wall, and
with the best will in the world they knew not how to draw me within it.
And I, for my part, while I understood well their wish to rest and be at
peace, could not quite understand the way in which it found fulfilment,
nor share the repose which seemed to them all-sufficient and lasting.
In their gardens I saw ever the same flowers, and none perfect. At their
feasts I tasted ever the same food, and none that made an end of hunger.
In their talk I heard ever the same words