As we here stood, there passed a hungry figure, in ragged raiment:  hollow cheeks, and hollow eyes.  Wistfully he eyed the offerings; but retreated; knowing it was sacrilege to touch them.  There, they must decay, in honor of the god Ananna; for so this dead tree was denominated by Mohi.

Now, as we were thus strolling about the Morai, the old chronicler elucidating its mysteries, we suddenly spied Pani and the pilgrims approaching the image of Doleema; his child leading the guide.

“This,” began Pani, pointing to the idol of stone, “is the holy god Ananna who lives in the sap of this green and flourishing tree.”

“Thou meanest not, surely, this stone image we behold?” said Divino.

“I mean the tree,” said the guide.  “It is no stone image.”

“Strange,” muttered the chief; “were it not a guide that spoke, I would deny it.  As it is, I hold my peace.”

“Mystery of mysteries!” cried the blind old pilgrim; “is it, then, a stone image that Pani calls a tree?  Oh, Oro, that I had eyes to see, that I might verily behold it, and then believe it to be what it is not; that so I might prove the largeness of my faith; and so merit the blessing of Alma.”

“Thrice sacred Ananna,” murmured the sad-eyed maiden, falling upon her knees before Doleema, “receive my adoration.  Of thee, I know nothing, but what the guide has spoken.  I am but a poor, weak-minded maiden, judging not for myself, but leaning upon others that are wiser.  These things are above me.  I am afraid to think.  In Alma’s name, receive my homage.”

And she flung flowers before the god.

But Fauna, the hale matron, turning upon Pani, exclaimed, “Receive more gifts, oh guide.”  And again she showered them upon him.

Upon this, the willful boy who would not have Pani for his guide, entered the Morai; and perceiving the group before the image, walked rapidly to where they were.  And beholding the idol, he regarded it attentively, and said:—­“This must be the image of Doleema; but I am not sure.”

“Nay,” cried the blind pilgrim, “it is the holy tree Ananna, thou wayward boy.”

“A tree? whatever it may be, it is not that; thou art blind, old man.”

“But though blind, I have that which thou lackest.”

Then said Pani, turning upon the boy, “Depart from the holy Morai, and corrupt not the hearts of these pilgrims.  Depart, I say; and, in the sacred name of Alma, perish in thy endeavors to climb the Peak.”

“I may perish there in truth,” said the boy, with sadness; “but it shall be in the path revealed to me in my dream.  And think not, oh guide, that I perfectly rely upon gaining that lofty summit.  I will climb high Ofo with hope, not faith; Oh, mighty Oro, help me!”

“Be not impious,” said Pani; “pronounce not Oro’s sacred name too lightly.”

“Oro is but a sound,” said the boy.  “They call the supreme god, Ati, in my native isle; it is the soundless thought of him, oh guide, that is in me.”