Maskull reflected.

"On Earth," he said after a minute, "men like Panawe are called
artists, poets, and musicians. Beauty overflows into them too, and
out of them again. The only distinction is that their productions
are more human and intelligible."

"Nothing comes from it but vanity," said Panawe, and, taking the
crystal out of Maskull's hand, he threw it into the lake.

The precipice they now had to climb was several hundred feet in
height. Maskull was more anxious for Joiwind than for himself. She
was evidently tiring, but she refused all help, and was in fact still
the nimbler of the two. She made a mocking face at him. Panawe
seemed lost in quiet thoughts. The rock was sound, and did not
crumble under their weight. The heat of Branchspell, however, was by
this time almost killing, the radiance was shocking in its white
intensity, and Maskull's pain steadily grew worse.

When they got to the top, a plateau of dark rock appeared, bare of
vegetation, stretching in both directions as far as the eye could
see. It was of a nearly uniform width of five hundred yards, from
the edge of the cliffs to the lower slopes of the chain of hills
inland. The hills varied in height. The cup-shaped Poolingdred
was approximately a thousand feet above them. The upper part of it
was covered with a kind of glittering vegetation which he could not
comprehend.

Joiwind put her hand on Maskull's shoulder, and pointed upward.