the battlements again, and together they watched the dark clouds pour
down their floods while their purple was riven by the dazzling lances of
the lightning; and the thunder rolled and crashed and seemed to rend
asunder things no human eye could see; and the wind roared round the
castle on the mountain crag and beat against its towers, and tossed the
branches of the hugest trees, and whirled the rain in sheets over the
land,--and King Amor stood erect and strong like some little soldier,
though he wondered where the small birds were and if the eagle were in
his nest.

Through all the tumult the Ancient One stood still. He looked taller
than ever in his long gray robe, and his strange eyes were deep as the
sea.

At last he said in a slow, calm voice: "This is the voice of the power
men know not. No man has yet quite understood--though it seems to speak.
Harken to it. Let your soul stand silent. Listen, young King. Hold your
head high as you walk and often look upward. Never forget the storm."

So the King learned to love the storm and be one with it, knowing no
fear.

But perhaps--it might be because he had been laid on the scented moss
and had without knowing it saluted them on the first night of his life--
he felt nearest to, and loved most, his brothers the stars.

Every fair night through the King's earliest years the Ancient One
carried him to the battlements and let him fall asleep beneath the
shining myriads. But first he would walk about bearing him in his arms,
or sit with him in the splendid silence, sometimes relating wonders to