Nightspore had a foreknowledge that the sixth window would prove to be the last.  Nothing would have kept him from ascending to it, for he guessed that the nature of Crystalman himself would there become manifest.  Every step upward was like a bloody life-and-death struggle.  The stairs nailed him to the ground; the air pressure caused blood to gush from his nose and ears; his head clanged like an iron bell.  When he had fought his way up a dozen steps, he found himself suddenly at the top; the staircase terminated in a small, bare chamber of cold stone, possessing a single window.  On the other side of the apartment another short flight of stairs mounted through a trap, apparently to the roof of the building.  Before ascending these stairs, Nightspore hastened to the window and stared out.

The shadow form of Crystalman had drawn much closer to him, and filled the whole sky, but it was not a shadow of darkness, but a bright shadow.  It had neither shape, nor colour, yet it in some way suggested the delicate tints of early morning.  It was so nebulous that the sphere could be clearly distinguished through it; in extension, however, it was thick.  The sweet smell emanating from it was strong, loathsome, and terrible; it seemed to spring from a sort of loose, mocking slime inexpressibly vulgar and ignorant.

The spirit stream from Muspel flashed with complexity and variety.  It was not below individuality, but above it.  It was not the One, or the Many, but something else far beyond either.  It approached Crystalman, and entered his body—­if that bright mist could be called a body.  It passed right through him, and the passage caused him the most exquisite pleasure.  The Muspel-stream was Crystalman’s food.  The stream emerged from the other side on to the sphere, in a double condition.  Part of it reappeared intrinsically unaltered, but shivered into a million fragments.  These were the green corpuscles.  In passing through Crystalman they had escaped absorption by reason of their extreme minuteness.  The other part of the stream had not escaped.  Its fire had been abstracted, its cement was withdrawn, and, after being fouled and softened by the horrible sweetness of the host, it broke into individuals, which were the whirls of living will.

Nightspore shuddered.  He comprehended at last how the whole world of will was doomed to eternal anguish in order that one Being might feel joy.

Presently he set foot on the final flight leading to the roof; for he remembered vaguely that now only that remained.

Halfway up, he fainted—­but when he recovered consciousness he persisted as though nothing had happened to him.  As soon as his head was above the trap, breathing the free air, he had the same physical sensation as a man stepping out of water.  He pulled his body up, and stood expectantly on the stone-floored roof, looking round for his first glimpse of Muspel.

There was nothing.