And he became old and withered. He leaned heavily on his staff.

"Can one rest here?" he asked wearily.

"No."

"Is there a way down the other side of these mountains?"

"No."

"What are these mountains called?"

"They have no name."

"And the temple--how do you call the temple?"

"It has no name!"

"Then I call it the Temple of Broken Hearts," said the Traveller.

And he turned and went. But the old white-haired man followed him.

"Brother," he said, "you are not the first to come here, but you may be
the last. Go back to the plains, and tell the dwellers in the plains
that the Temple of True Knowledge is in their very midst; any one may
enter it who chooses, the gate is not even closed. The Temple has
always been in the plains, in the very heart of life, and work, and
daily effort. The philosopher may enter, the stone-breaker may enter.
You must have passed it every day of your life; a plain, venerable
building, unlike your glorious cathedrals."