see if it was the right one and to escape with it from that dreadful
place. Under the shelter of the pedestal, so near to the guardian that
they could feel his warmth, which paradoxically had the effect of
chilling the blood of the boldest of them, they smashed the emerald
hasp and opened the golden box; and there they read by the light of
ingenious sparks which Slith knew how to contrive, and even this poor
light they hid with their bodies. What was their joy, even at that
perilous moment, as they lurked between the guardian and the abyss, to
find that the box contained fifteen peerless odes in the alcaic form,
five sonnets that were by far the most beautiful in the world, nine
ballads in the manner of Provence that had no equal in the treasuries
of man, a poem addressed to a moth in twenty-eight perfect stanzas, a
piece of blank verse of over a hundred lines on a level not yet known
to have been attained by man, as well as fifteen lyrics on which no
merchant would dare to set a price. They would have read them again,
for they gave happy tears to a man and memories of dear things done in
infancy, and brought sweet voices from far sepulchres; but Slith
pointed imperiously to the way by which they had come, and
extinguished the light; and Slorg and Sippy sighed, then took the box.

The guardian still slept the sleep that survived a thousand years.

As they came away they saw that indulgent chair close by the edge of
the World in which the Owner of the Box had lately sat reading
selfishly and alone the most beautiful songs and verses that poet ever
dreamed.

They came in silence to the foot of the stairs; and then it befell
that as they drew nearer safely, in the night's most secret hour, some
hand in an upper chamber lit a shocking light, lit it and made no