“I seek the sun,” the princess sang, and started into the west.

“Never!” cried the king of Yonder Kingdom, “for such were blasphemy and defilement and the making of all evil.”

So, raising his great sword he struck with all his might, and more.  Down hissed the blow and it bit that little, white, heart-holding hand until it flew armless and disbodied up through the sunlit air.  Down hissed the blow and it clove the whimpering hound until his last shriek shook the stars.  Down hissed the blow and it rent the earth.  It trembled, fell apart, and yawned to a chasm wide as earth from heaven, deep as hell, and empty, cold, and silent.

On yonder distant shore blazed the mighty Empire of the Sun in warm and blissful radiance, while on this side, in shadows cold and dark, gloomed the Hither Isles and the hill that once was golden, but now was green and slimy dross; all below was the sad and moaning sea, while between the Here and There flew the severed hand and dripped the bleeding heart.

Then up from the soul of the princess welled a cry of dark despair,—­such a cry as only babe-raped mothers know and murdered loves.  Poised on the crumbling edge of that great nothingness the princess hung, hungering with her eyes and straining her fainting ears against the awful splendor of the sky.

Out from the slime and shadows groped the king, thundering:  “Back—­don’t be a fool!”

But down through the thin ether thrilled the still and throbbing warmth of heaven’s sun, whispering “Leap!”

And the princess leapt.

IV

OF WORK AND WEALTH

For fifteen years I was a teacher of youth.  They were years out of the fullness and bloom of my younger manhood.  They were years mingled of half breathless work, of anxious self-questionings, of planning and replanning, of disillusion, or mounting wonder.

The teacher’s life is a double one.  He stands in a certain fear.  He tends to be stilted, almost dishonest, veiling himself before those awful eyes.  Not the eyes of Almighty God are so straight, so penetrating, so all-seeing as the wonder-swept eyes of youth.  You walk into a room:  to the left is a tall window, bright with colors of crimson and gold and sunshine.  Here are rows of books and there is a table.  Somber blackboards clothe the walls to the right and beside your desk is the delicate ivory of a nobly cast head.  But you see nothing of this:  you see only a silence and eyes,—­fringed, soft eyes; hard eyes; eyes great and small; eyes here so poignant with beauty that the sob struggles in your throat; eyes there so hard with sorrow that laughter wells up to meet and beat it back; eyes through which the mockery and ridicule of hell or some pulse of high heaven may suddenly flash.  Ah!  That mighty pause before the class,—­that orison and benediction—­how much of my life it has been and made.