We knew that soon we should come to Mandaroon.  We made a meal, and Mandaroon appeared.  Then the captain commanded, and the sailors loosed again the greater sails, and the ship turned and left the stream of Yann and came into a harbour beneath the ruddy walls of Mandaroon.  Then while the sailors went and gathered fruits I came alone to the gate of Mandaroon.  A few huts were outside it, in which lived the guard.  A sentinel with a long white beard was standing in the gate, armed with a rusty pike.  He wore large spectacles, which were covered with dust.  Through the gate I saw the city.  A deathly stillness was over all of it.  The ways seemed untrodden, and moss was thick on doorsteps; in the market-place huddled figures lay asleep.  A scent of incense and burned poppies, and there was a hum of the echoes of distant bells.  I said to the sentinel in the tongue of the region of Yann, “Why are they all asleep in this still city?”

He answered:  “None may ask questions in this gate for fear they wake the people of the city.  For when the people of this city wake the gods will die.  And when the gods die men may dream no more.”  And I began to ask him what gods that city worshipped, but he lifted his pike because none might ask questions there.  So I left him and went back to the Bird of the River.

Certainly Mandaroon was beautiful with her white pinnacles peering over her ruddy walls and the green of her copper roofs.

When I came back again to the Bird of the River, I found the sailors were returned to the ship.  Soon we weighed anchor, and sailed out again, and so came once more to the middle of the river.  And now the sun was moving towards his heights, and there had reached us on the River Yann the song of those countless myriads of choirs that attend him in his progress round the world.  For the little creatures that have many legs had spread their gauze wings easily on the air, as a man rests his elbows on a balcony and gave jubilant, ceremonial praises to the sun, or else they moved together on the air in wavering dances intricate and swift, or turned aside to avoid the onrush of some drop of water that a breeze had shaken from a jungle orchid, chilling the air and driving it before it, as it fell whirring in its rush to the earth; but all the while they sang triumphantly.  “For the day is for us,” they said, “whether our great and sacred father the Sun shall bring up more life like us from the marshes, or whether all the world shall end to-night.”  And there sang all those whose notes are known to human ears, as well as those whose far more numerous notes have never been heard by man.

To these a rainy day had been as an era of war that should desolate continents during all the lifetime of a man.

And there came out also from the dark and steaming jungle to behold and rejoice in the Sun the huge and lazy butterflies.  And they danced, but danced idly, on the ways of the air, as some haughty queen of distant conquered lands might in her poverty and exile dance, in some encampment of the gipsies, for the mere bread to live by, but beyond that would never abate her pride to dance for a fragment more.