describe the extraordinary sense of purity that Corydon gave to him;
it was not simply her maidenhood--it was something far more rare
than that. Here was an utterly perfect human soul; a soul without
speck or blemish--without a base idea, with no trace of a vanity,
unaware what a pretense might be. The joy and wonder of life welled
spontaneously in her, she moved to a noble impulse as a cloud moves
before the wind. She was like a creature from the skies they were
watching.

And here, in the silver moonlight, a memorable hour came to them.
Thyrsis told her of his consecration, and why he lived his
hermit-life. He had known for years that he was not as other men;
and now every hour it was becoming clearer to him. He shrunk from
the word, because it had been desecrated by the world; but it was
Genius. More and more frequently there was coming to him this
strange ecstasy, the source of which he could not guess; it was like
the giving way of flood-gates within him--the pouring in of a tide
of wonder and joy. It made him tremble like a leaf, it made him cry
aloud and fall down upon the ground exhausted. And yet, whatever the
strain might be, he never lost his grip upon himself; rather, all
the powers of his mind seemed to be multiplied--it seemed as if all
existence became one with his soul.

Never before had he uttered a word of this to anyone. No one could
understand the burden it had laid upon him. For this was the thing
that all the world was seeking, for the lack of which the world was
dying; and it was his to give or to withhold, to lose or to save. He
had to forge it and shape it, he had to embody it, to set it forth
in images and symbols. And that meant a terrific labor, a feat of
mental and emotional endurance quite indescribable. He must hold it,