The phaen gave a twisted grin, and they began to move upstream.  The road was difficult.  They had to stride from boulder to boulder, and found it warm work.  Occasionally a worse obstacle presented itself, which they could surmount only by climbing.  There was no more conversation for a long time.  Maskull, as far as possible, adopted his companion’s counsel to avoid the water, but here and there he was forced to set foot in it.  The second or third time he did so, he felt a sudden agony in his arm, where it had been wounded by Krag.  His eyes grew joyful; his fears vanished; and he began deliberately to tread the stream.

Leehallfae stroked aer chin and watched him with screwed-up eyes, trying to comprehend what had happened.  “Is your luck speaking to you, Maskull, or what is the matter?”

“Listen.  You are a being of antique experience, and ought to know, if anyone does.  What is Muspel?”

The phaen’s face was blank.  “I don’t know the name.”

“It is another world of some sort.”

“That cannot be.  There is only this one world—­Faceny’s.”

Maskull came up to aer, linked arms, and began to talk.  “I’m glad I fell in with you, Leehallfae, for this valley and everything connected with it need a lot of explaining.  For example, in this spot there are hardly any organic forms left—­why have they all disappeared?  You call this brook a ‘life stream,’ yet the nearer its source we get, the less life it produces.  A mile or two lower down we had those spontaneous plant-animals appearing out of nowhere, while right down by the sea, plants and animals were tumbling over one another.  Now, if all this is connected in some mysterious way or other with your Faceny, it seems to me he must have a most paradoxical nature.  His essence doesn’t start creating shapes until it has become thoroughly weakened and watered....  But perhaps both of us are talking nonsense.”

Leehallfae shook aer head.  “Everything hangs together.  The stream is life, and it is throwing off sparks of life all the time.  When these sparks are caught and imprisoned by matter, they become living shapes.  The nearer the stream is to its source, the more terrible and vigorous is its life.  You’ll see for yourself when we reach the head of the valley that there are no living shapes there at all.  That means that there is no kind of matter tough enough to capture and hold the terrible sparks that are to be found there.  Lower down the stream, most of the sparks are vigorous enough to escape to the upper air, but some are held when they are a little way up, and these burst suddenly into shapes.  I myself am of this nature.  Lower down still, toward the sea, the stream has lost a great part of its vital power and the sparks are lazy and sluggish.  They spread out, rather than rise into the air.  There is hardly any kind of matter, however delicate, that is incapable of capturing these feeble sparks, and they are captured