gateway, and passed to the margin of a shining lake. There the two
stepped into a boat that waited for them, of which the rowers were nobly
fashioned, like the Keeper of the House, and as they bowed their heads to
a melodious blessing, the boat drew away. Soon, in the sweet haze, they
looked transfigured and enlarged, majestic figures moving through the
Scarlet Hills to the quiet country. Now the valley through which they had
passed was the Valley of Death, where the young become old, and the old
young, and all become wise.




THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT

The Tent stands on the Mount of Lost Winters, in that bit of hospitable
land called the Fair Valley, which is like no other in the North. Whence
comes the soft wind that comforts it, who can tell? It swims through the
great gap in the mountains, and passing down the valley, sinks upon the
prairie of the Ten Stars, where it is lost. What man first placed the
Tent on the Mount none knows, though legends are many. It has a clear
outlook to the north, whence comes the gracious wind, and it is sheltered
at the south by a stout wall of commendable trees; yet these are at some
small distance, so that the Tent has a space all about it, and the figure
of the general land is as that of an amphitheatre.

It is made of deerskin, dyed by a strange process which turned it white,
and doctored by some cunning medicine. It is like a perfect parchment,
and shows no decay. It has a centre-pole of excellent fir, and from its
peak flies a strip of snake-skin, dyed a red which never fades. For the
greater part of the year the plateau whereon the Tent stands is covered