rest for the night. The silence deepened, and was only broken by the
ripples of Yann that lightly touched our prow. Sometimes some monster
of the river coughed.

Silence and ripples, ripples and silence again.

And then his loneliness came upon the helmsman, and he began to
sing. And he sang the market songs of Durl and Duz, and the old
dragon-legends of Belzoond.

Many a song he sang, telling to spacious and exotic Yann the little
tales and trifles of his city of Durl. And the songs welled up over
the black jungle and came into the clear cold air above, and the great
bands of stars that look on Yann began to know the affairs of Durl and
Duz, and of the shepherds that dwelt in the fields between, and the
flocks that they had, and the loves that they had loved, and all the
little things that they hoped to do. And as I lay wrapped up in skins
and blankets, listening to those songs, and watching the fantastic
shapes of the great trees like to black giants stalking through the
night, I suddenly fell asleep.

When I awoke great mists were trailing away from the Yann. And the
flow of the river was tumbling now tumultuously, and little waves
appeared; for Yann had scented from afar the ancient crags of Glorm,
and knew that their ravines lay cool before him wherein he should meet
the merry wild Irillion rejoicing from fields of snow. So he shook
off from him the torpid sleep that had come upon him in the hot and
scented jungle, and forgot its orchids and its butterflies, and swept
on turbulent, expectant, strong; and soon the snowy peaks of the Hills
of Glorm came glittering into view. And now the sailors were waking