Then they went on, scaling that invisible way, with the twinkling feet of the carriers drawing upward like a thread of thin gold which they were to climb.  What, St. George thought as the way seemed to lengthen before them, what if there were no end?  What if this were some gigantic trick of Destiny to keep him for the rest of his life in mid-air, ceaselessly toiling up, a latter-day Sisyphus, in a palanquin?  He had dreamed of stairs in the darkness which men mounted and found to have no summits, and suppose this were such a stair?  Suppose, among these marvels that were related to his dreams, he had, as it were, tossed a ball of twine in the air and, like the Indian jugglers, climbed it?  Suppose he had built a castle in the clouds and tenanted it with Olivia, and were now foolhardily attempting to scale the air?  Ah well, he settled it contentedly, better so.  For this divine jugglery comes once into every life, and one must climb to the castle with madness and singing if he would attain to the temples that lie on the castle-plain.

Gradually, as they approached the summit, the ascent became less precipitous.  As they neared the cone their way lay over a kind of natural fosse at the cone’s base; and, although the mountain did not reach the level of perpetual snow, yet an occasional cool breath from the dark told where in some natural cavern snow had lain undisturbed since the unremembered eruption of the sullen, volcanic peak.  Then came a breath of over-powering sweetness from some secret thicket, and something was struck from the feet of the bearers that was like white pumice gravel.  St. George no longer looked downward; the plain and the waste of the sea were in a forgotten limbo, and he searched eagerly on high for the first rays of the light that marked the goal of his longing.

Yet he was unprepared when, swerving sharply and skirting an immense shoulder of rock, Jarvo suddenly emerged upon a broad retaining wall of stone bordering a smooth, moon-lit terrace extending by shallow flights of steps to the white doors of the king’s palace itself.

As St. George and Amory freed themselves and sprang to their feet their eyes were drawn to a glory of light shining over the low parapet which surrounded the terrace.

“Look,” cried St. George victoriously, “the moon!”

From the sea the moon was momently growing, like a giant bubble, and a bright path had issued to the mountain’s foot.  “See,” she would doubtless have said if she could, “I would have shown you the way here all your life if only you had looked properly.”  But at all events St. George’s prophecy was fulfilled:  From the top of Mount Khalak they were watching the moon rise.  St. George, however, was not yet in the company whose image had pleasantly besieged him when he had prophesied.  He turned impatiently to the palace.  Jarvo, resting on the stones where he had sunk down, signaled them to go on, and the two needed no second bidding.  They set off briskly across the plateau, Amory looking about him with eager curiosity, St. George on the crest of his divine expectancy.