In the early light of that October morning the weird, vast shapes that filled, the abyss were bathed in a bewildering opulence of color.  Pale gold along the farther rim, with pink and amber, blue and gray, and heliotrope and rose—­all blending softly, tone on tone.  Deeper, the heart of every rift and chasm that flows into the one stupendous mother-rift was full of purple shadows.  Not the thin lavender of the upper world where we must live, but tensely, richly regal, beyond words to paint; with silvery mists above, soft, filmy veils that draped the jutting rocks and rounded each harsh edge, melting pink to rose and gray to violet.  Eternal silence brooded over all this symbol, wrought in visible form, of His Almightiness, to whom a thousand years are as a day, and in the hollow of whose hand He holds the universe.  Measureless, motionless, voiceless, it seemed as if all the canons of all the mountains of our great contienent might have given to it here their awful depth and height and rugged strength; their picturesqueness, color, graceful outlines, dizzy steeps and awe-inspiring lengths and breadths.  And fusing all these into itself, height on height, and breadth on breadth, entrancing charm on charm, with all the hues that the Great Alchemist can throw from His vast prism, it seemed to say: 

“’Twas only in a vision that St. John saw the four-square city whose twelve gates are each a single pearl! whose walls are builded on foundation stones of jasper, sapphire, and chalcedony, emerald and topaz, chrysolite and amethyst; whose streets are of pure gold, like unto clear glass; whose light is ever like unto a stone most precious.

“To you who may not dream the vision beautiful, the Mighty Maker of all things sublime has given me a token here in finite stone and earthly coloring of that undreamed sublimity of all things omnipotent.”

My companion and I sat on our horses speechless, gazing down at this overwhelming marvel below us.  We forgot ourselves, each other, our companions of the journey, its purpose, Beverly, and his enemy Santan, the desert, the brown plains, green prairies, rivers, mountains, the earth itself, as we stood there in the shadow of the Infinite.

At last we turned and looked into each other’s eyes for one long moment.  In its space we read the old, old story through, and a great, up-leaping joy illumined our faces.  God, who had let us know each other, had let us stand by this to feel the barrier of misunderstanding fall away.

* * * * *

A sound of horses’ hoofs on the rocky slope below us, a weird Indian call, and a great shout from our calverymen drew us to earth again.  The Hopis were coming.  Father Josef knew the signal.  Our Indian runner had found them in the night and sent them toward us.  We dashed into the forest, keeping close together; and here, a mile away, under green pines, surrounded by a little group of a desert Hopi clan, was Beverly Clarenden—­big, strong, unhurt and joyful.  And Little Blue Flower.