Part 82 (2/2)

”Hark!”

”Hark!”

Mark seized his spear; Bevis his bow.

”Is it something coming from the wave?”

”No, it's in the sky.”

”Listen!”

There was a whirr above like wheels in the air, and a creaking sound with it. They stood up, but could not see what it was, though it grew louder and came nearer with a rus.h.i.+ng noise. Suddenly something white appeared above the trees which had concealed its approach, and a swan pa.s.sed over descending. It was the noise of its wings and their creaking which sounded like wheels. The great bird descended aslant quite a quarter of a mile into the water to the south in front of them, and there floated among the glittering ripples.

”I thought it was the roc,” said Mark, sitting down again.

”Or a genie,” said Bevis. ”What a creaking and whirring it made!”

Rooks' wings often creak as they go over like stiff leather, but the noise of a swan's flight is audible a mile or more.

”Go on with the story,” said Mark.

”It's finished.”

”But what did he do when they pulled him back? Didn't he burst the door open?”

”He couldn't. When he was pulled back it was night on that side of the wall, and the sudden change made him so bewildered that they led him away as if he was walking in his sleep down to the temple.”

”What did he do with the magic leaf he had in his hand?”

”O! the wind of the bronze door as it slammed up blew it out of his hand. But when he came to himself and began to reproach them for pulling him away before he had had time even to look, they told him he had been looking three days and that it was the third night when the door was shut--”

”I see--it went so quick.”

”It went so quick, like when you go to sleep and wake up next minute, and it's morning. But when he came to himself he found that his right hand which he had put through and which had cast no shadow was changed, it was white and smooth and soft, while the other hand and his face (as he was so old) was wrinkled and hard, so he was quite sure that what he had seen was real and true.”

”Didn't he try to go back and find the door.”

”Of course he did. But there was nothing but jungle, and he could not find the narrow valley; nor would they show him the way there again.

They told him that only one was let through about every thousand years, and the reason they are so careful people shall not enter Thibet is that they may not stumble on the bronze door.”

”And what became of him?”

”O! he lived to be the oldest man there ever was, which was because he had breathed the delicious air, and his hand was always white and soft like Frances's. Every night when he went to sleep, he could hear some of the star flute music of the organ, and dreamed he could see it; but he could hear it plainly. At last he died and went to join his soul, which had travelled on down the footpath, you know, towards the opal sun.”

”How stupid to keep the door shut, and never let any one find it!”

”Ah, but don't you see the reason is because if it was open and people could find it, they would all run there and squeeze through, one after the other, like sheep through a gap, till the world was left empty without anybody in it, and they told him that was the reason. Grandpa says it is a pleasant thought that at least one goes through in a thousand years; if only one, that is something. My grandpa told me the story, and the son of the man told him--I mean the man who just looked through, or else it was his grandson or his great-great-grandson, for I know it was a long time ago. And there is no other side to that place.”

<script>