He remained on the mountain for three days, eating nothing, and not thinking of food. He felt the opposing forces of life within, through and around him. The harmonious, continually pulsing tension of existence became in a manner clear to him, its great necessity indubitable. He knew that the battle of opposites, the co-operative strife of elements, abilities, tendencies, must be fought within himself; he foresaw no gain from the struggle's objectification, or its transferral to his associations with others. He would have peaceful, profoundly and highly aspiring, adequate companions, or he would remain alone. During the fourth night, just before the dawn, he saw a shimmering light over a higher crest in the distance. For an instant it seemed to become a finger, pointing; and then it faded. He arose, light but unfaint from fasting, and set out for the indicated mountain. He encountered no other person along the way. * * * * * It was in the late afternoon that he arrived. It was a large and beautiful valley, into which he slowly descended. It was thickly populated, and filled with a seething, a tremendous activity. Waves of immense, ardent energy enveloped him, compound of great joy and great despair; heart-ravishing music, barely audible, came to him, spasmodically, on the faint breezes. And the weariness and the weakness came to him also, strongly, the exhaustion of his great efforts of the past several days. He lost consciousness, and sank in a seemingly almost boneless heap to the side of the mountain. He awoke the following morning in a small hut, secluded, in the shade of a large tree and beside a stream. A spare old man, with a slight beard and twinkling eyes, nodded to him. "Smells good, does it?" he asked. It smelled very good, and it looked better when the old man brought him an ample breakfast, well prepared. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful. "If you don't know where you are," said the old man, "this is a community of artists. We don't always get along very well together," he smiled, "but usually we're minding our own business anyway; and it's good to exchange ideas and insights now and then, and see each other's work. And we co-operate too, especially on the stage productions, like Noh plays, or Wagner, or something contemporary. I can introduce you to a young man who has written some very powerful and apt music for the Aeschylean choruses. "I'm a poet myself," he continued, "and a dramatist now and then. I'm pretty modest and easy-going, compared to most of the people here, but I have my moments, and I've done some pretty good things in my life. I'll probably show you some later on. It's a good thing for you I'm in a silent period just now: if the old touch had been on my lyre, I'd never have noticed you; or if I had, I'd not have attended to you. But come on, you look healthy enough: let me show you around." He arose to dress, and the old man looked him over with frank admiration.