sight of the valley was most fair to their eyes, there came out of the
southmost corner a girl, who, as soon as she set foot in the valley,
laid aside her knapsack in the hollow of a tree, also her moccasins and
a little cap of fur, and came on with bare head and feet towards the
Mount of the Lost Winters.

She was of good stature, ripely made, not beautiful of face, but with
a look which would make any man turn twice to see, a very glory of
fine hair, and a hand which spoke oftener than the lips. She had come a
month's travel, scarcely halting from sunrise to sunset, and she was as
worn in body as in spirit. Now, as she passed up the valley she stood
still several times, and looked round in a kind of dream, as well one
might who had come out of an inclement south country to this sweet
nourishment. Yet she stood not still for joy and content, but for
pain. Once or twice she lifted up her hands above her head as though
appealing, but these pauses were only for brief moments, for she kept
moving on towards the mountain with a swift step. When she had climbed
the plateau where the delicate grass yielded with a tender spring to the
feet, she paused long and gazed round, as though to take a last glance
at all; then, turning to the Tent, looked steadfastly at it, awe and
wonder, and something more difficult of interpretation, in her face. At
last she slowly came to the curtain of the Tent, and lifting it, without
a pause stepped inside, the curtain falling behind her.

The Tent was empty save for the centre-pole, a wooden trough of dried
fruit, a jar of water, and a mat of the most gentle purple colour, which
was laid between the centre-pole and the tent-curtain. The mat was of
exquisite make, as it seemed from the chosen fibres of some perfect
wood, and the hue was as that of a Tyrian dye. A soft light pervaded
the place, perhaps filtered through the parchment-like white skin of the
Tent, for it seemed to have no other fountain. Upon the farther side
a token was drawn in purple on the tentskin, and the girl, seeing it,
turned quickly to the curtain through which she had passed. Upon the
curtain were other signs. She read them slowly, and repeated them out
loud in a low uncertain voice, like a bird's note blundering in a flute:

"Four hours shalt thou look northward, kneeling on the Mat of Purple,
and thinking of the Camp of the Delightful Fires, around which is the
Joyous City; four hours shalt thou lie prone, thy face up