CHAPTER IX.

THE FLOWER OF THE SOUL.


Early on the chief day of the festival Otāré came and took us to see the
mystical rite of cutting the "Flower of the Soul."

The morning was fine, and the clear waters of the lake were bright with
boats filled with joyous parties bound like ourselves for the Holy
Island.

Landing at a noble quay of red granite, we climbed the steep and shaggy
sides of the mountain by a sacred and winding avenue, bordered with
blooming trees and statuary. Most of the figures were exquisitely carved
in a white wood or stone, having a pearly sheen, and represented the
former priestesses of the Temple, or illustrated the animating spirit of
the cult.

On gaining the summit we found ourselves at the brim of a spacious
hollow or basin, which in past ages must have been the crater of the
volcanic peak. The grassy slopes of the basin were laid out in flower
gardens and terraces of coloured marbles, shaded with sombre trees, and
ornamented with sculpture. In the bottom lay an oval sheet of water a
mile long or more, and from the midst of it, towards the near end, a
beautiful islet, crowned by a magnificent temple, rose like a mirage to
the view, and seemed to float on its glassy bosom.

Words of mine cannot give any idea of that sublime architecture, which