existence and wished only to enjoy it, but the green corpuscles were in a condition of eternal discontent, yet, blind and not knowing which way to turn for liberation, kept changing form, as though breaking a new path, by way of experiment.  Whenever the old grotesque became metamorphosed into the new grotesque, it was in every case the direct work of the green atoms, trying to escape toward Muspel, but encountering immediate opposition.  These subdivided sparks of living, fiery spirit were hopelessly imprisoned in a ghastly mush of soft pleasure.  They were being effeminated and corrupted—­that is to say, absorbed in the foul, sickly enveloping forms.

Nightspore felt a sickening shame in his soul as he looked on at that spectacle.  His exaltation had long since vanished.  He bit his nails, and understood why Krag was waiting for him below.

He mounted slowly to the fifth window.  The pressure of air against him was as strong as a full gale, divested of violence and irregularity, so that he was not for an instant suffered to relax his efforts.  Nevertheless, not a breath stirred.

Looking through the window, he was startled by a new sight.  The sphere was still there, but between it and the Muspel-world in which he was standing he perceived a dim, vast shadow, without any distinguishable shape, but somehow throwing out a scent of disgusting sweetness.  Nightspore knew that it was Crystalman.  A flood of fierce light—­but it was not light, but passion—­was streaming all the time from Muspel to the Shadow, and through it.  When, however, it emerged on the other side, which was the sphere, the light was altered in character.  It became split, as by a prism, into the two forms of life which he had previously seen—­the green corpuscles and the whirls.  What had been fiery spirit but a moment ago was now a disgusting mass of crawling, wriggling individuals, each whirl of pleasure-seeking will having, as nucleus, a fragmentary spark of living green fire.  Nightspore recollected the back rays of Starkness, and it flashed across him with the certainty of truth that the green sparks were the back rays, and the whirls the forward rays, of Muspel.  The former were trying desperately to return to their place of origin, but were overpowered by the brute force of the latter, which wished only to remain where they were.  The individual whirls were jostling and fighting with, and even devouring, each other.  This created pain, but, whatever pain they felt, it was always pleasure that they sought.  Sometimes the green sparks were strong enough for a moment to move a little way in the direction of Muspel; the whirls would then accept the movement, not only without demur, but with pride and pleasure, as if it were their own handiwork—­ but they never saw beyond the Shadow, they thought that they were travelling toward it.  The instant the direct movement wearied them, as contrary to their whirling nature, they fell again to killing, dancing, and loving.