This is reached by one of the lost trails of the world. A few gallant explorers have picked the way, but failed to publish since the people would think such a report a fiction, and their reputations for veracity be broken. Traders pass the rim of the gap regularly, but do not know it. Routledge had learned it from a Sannyasi. The way is tortuous and a bit perilous, so he arranged for Noreen and himself to follow a party of traders. Among these men was a Boy. There was cleanness in his gray eye, and you could not think of taint and look at his cheeks so ruddy under the tan. The Boy searched Noreen’s face with the guilelessness of a child and the valor of a man. When he rode beside her, the air that she breathed was new. Of course the saddle was torture to her, a cumulative torture with the hours, but it was only physical, and night bore down with the sleep of healing, from the twilight of evening to the twilight of dawn. The journey melted into a strange composite of cool mountain winds; brief, warm showers which released the fragrance of the valleys; humans in dim doors and upon the highways, held, as they passed, in tableaux of freezing horror--suffering, sunlight, sleep. And always ancient China unfolded greater vistas of hills, fields, huts, and glowering yellow faces; and always the Boy walked beside and served--a ragged chaperon. Routledge would smile on his way and note the large relation. The traders, too, were respectful--brave men whom the Open had kept mainly pure. There is a curse upon a white man in Asia, if he relaxes. Once the Boy said: “Don’t be afraid, lady. This is the sleepiest part of China. Any way, I would take care of you.” Routledge bent over from his mount and patted the Boy’s shoulder. They parted by the wayside with a smile--the Boy and Noreen. She proffered him her purse, but he answered: “I don’t want that. But any time I can help you--hail out! What are you going to do--stopping off here?” She threw a kiss to him, but did not answer. The traders were far ahead, and the Boy turned his back. “The world has gone,” Noreen said, after they had walked long through a tangled way. “Look below.” “Yes--the Leper Valley--our bravest man!” It was mid-afternoon. Routledge paused at the verge of a steep declivity, and they saw a radiant hollow evenly rimmed by mountains on every side. A lake gleamed at the bottom of this finger-bowl of the Gods, and moist tropical perfumes were borne softly upward with a far sound of bells--faint as the tinkle of drops of water falling upon thin metal. And together they went down into the fragrance. Noreen could feel her heart; she could feel her soul; and too there was an enchanting beauty in this delve of the world. It sustained. It was so wonderful--like a child laughing alone in paradise! There was a sound of chimes in the vast silence, and God seemed to speak above.