“Look, Bryan!” I whispered, “this is faery!” A slight upright figure, a child, stood a little apart shedding a delicate radiance upon the dusky air.  Curiously innocent, primeval, she moved, withdrawn in a world only half-perceived of gorgeous blossoms and mystic shadows.  Through her hair of feathery brown drifting about her the gleam of dust of gold and of rich colour seemed to come from her dress.  She raised her finger-tips from the flowers and dashed the bright dew aside.  I felt something vaguely familiar about the gesture.  Then Bryan said, “It is one of the Children of Twilight.”  It was a revelation of his mind.  I had entered into the forms of his imagination.

“This is wonderful Bryan!  If I can thus share in the thought of one, there can be no limit to the extension of this faculty.  It seems at the moment as if I could hope to finally enter the mind of humanity and gaze upon soul, not substance.”

“It would be a great but terrible power.  As often as not we imagine ourselves into demons.  Space is thronged with these dragon-like forms, chimaeras of the fearful mind.  Every thought is an entity.  Some time or other I think we will have to slay this brood we have brought forth.”

But as we turned backwards I had no dread or thought of this future contest.  I felt only gay hopes, saw only ever-widening vistas.  The dreams of the Golden Age, of far-off happy times grew full of meaning.  I people all the future with their splendour.  The air was thronged with bright supernatural beings, they moved in air, in light; and they and we and all together were sustained and thrilled by the breath of the Unknown God.

As we drew nigh to the tent, the light of the fire still flickering revealed Robert’s face within.  He was sleeping. the warmth of the sun had not yet charmed away the signs of study and anxious thought.

“Do you know the old tradition that in the deepest sleep of the body the soul goes into itself.  I believe he now knows the truth he feared to face.  A little while ago he was here; he was in doubt; now he is gone unto all ancient things.  He was in prison; now the Bird of Paradise has wings.  We cannot call him by any name, for we do not know what he is.  We might indeed cry aloud to his glory, as of old the Indian sage cried to a sleeper, ’Thou great one, clad in raiment; Soma:  King!” But who thinking what he is would call back the titan to this strange and pitiful dream of life?  Let us breath softly to do him reverence.  It is now the Hour of the King,

“Who would think this quite breather
        From the world had taken flight? 
Yet within the form we see there
        Wakes the Golden King to-night.

“Out upon the face of faces
        He looked forth before his sleep;
Now he knows the starry races
        Haunters of the ancient deep;

“On the Bird of Diamond Glory
        Floats in mystic floods of song;
As he lists, Time’s triple story
        Seems but as a day is long.