Finally, however--the climax of the story--the news of all this had spread to other nations, and the rulers of these nations perceived that it was anarchy, and could by no means be permitted--their own people were threatening to rise. It must be clearly shown that a state without a government would be plundered by enemies; and so they prepared to plunder it. And so arose a great agitation in Hathawi’s home-state, and men called for a dictator, and for preparations of defence. But the followers of Hathawi cried out, saying, “Let us submit! Let us open our city to these men, and let them do their will--for the power of the truth is greater than even they.” And so it was decided. When the hostile rulers heard of this a great fear took possession of them. They remembered the fate of certain famous diplomatists they had already sent over; and they dared not trust themselves near the statue of the Hearer of Truth. So their plans of invasion came to naught; and among their own people there was laughter and bitter mockery; and behold, one morning, a statue of Hathawi which some one had set up in a public-square! Here the lovers of truth gathered by thousands, and the soldiers who were sent to shoot them laid down their arms and joined them; and so, all over the world, was the end of the dominion of the lie. Section 11. Such was the outline of Thyrsis’ story. He judged that it might be a very great story, or a comparatively commonplace one--it all depended upon the power with which it was visioned. He must get into himself and wrestle the thing out. This was to be his act of creation--his baby! It was the first time since his marriage that Thyrsis had tried really to do what he called work. All things else had been mere echoes of the work he had done the previous summer; but now he had to do something new, something that was an echo of nothing else. Every day that he faced the task, his agony and despair of soul grew greater; for he found that he _could_ not do the work. He could not even begin to do it--he could not even try to do it! He was helpless, bound hand and foot! It was not his fault, it was not Corydon’s fault; it was a tragedy inherent in the very nature of things--in the two natures that were in himself. There was the man, who loved a woman, and hungered to see her happy; and there was the artist, to whom solitude was the very breath of life. To write this book--to write it really--he would have to spend weeks of brooding over it, thinking about nothing else day and night; he would have to shape his whole existence to that end to be free from every distracting circumstance, from everything that called him out of himself. And how could he hope for such a thing, while he was living in a tent with another person?