At that he moved heavily and slowly in way-worn carpet slippers,
panting as he went, to the back part of his shop, and I went with him.
This was a dingy lumber-room full of idols: the near end was dingy and
dark but at the far end was a blue cærulean glow in which stars seemed
to be shining and the heads of the idols glowed. "This," said the fat
old man in carpet slippers, "is the heaven of the gods who sleep." I
asked him what gods slept and he mentioned names that I had never
heard as well as names that I knew. "All those," he said, "that are
not worshipped now are asleep."

"Then does Time not kill the gods?" I said to him and he answered,
"No. But for three or four thousand years a god is worshipped and for
three or four he sleeps. Only Time is wakeful always."

"But they that teach us of new gods"--I said to him, "are they not
new?"

"They hear the old ones stirring in their sleep being about to wake,
because the dawn is breaking and the priests crow. These are the
happy prophets: unhappy are they that hear some old god speak while he
sleeps still being deep in slumber, and prophesy and prophesy and no
dawn comes, they are those that men stone saying, 'Prophesy where this
stone shall hit you, and this.'"

"Then shall Time never slay the gods," I said. And he answered, "They
shall die by the bedside of the last man. Then Time shall go mad in
his solitude and shall not know his hours from his centuries of years
and they shall clamour round him crying for recognition and he shall
lay his stricken hands on their heads and stare at them blindly and