“Oho, peasant!” cried the king. “Run and tell the head man of your village that the king bids him come directly, and will have him bring with him the longest ropes and the strongest throwers under him.” But the old man did not seem to give heed. Then the king cried, “Hearken, old man, run quickly and tell your master that the king is confined here, and will reward him beyond his dreams if he deliver him quickly.” Then the old man rose, and coming nearer to the edge of the ravine stood opposite, still playing at intervals some notes on his long pipe. And the king cried, “Canst thou hear? Dost thou dare to refuse to carry my commands? For I am the king of Persia. Who art thou?” Then the old man made answer, putting his pipe aside: “I am he who appears only when a man has passed for ever beyond the ken of all that have known him. I am Demiourgos, the maker of men.” Then the king cried, “Mock me not, but obey my commands.” The old man made answer, “I do not mock thee; and oh, my Lord, thou hast moved the puppets I have made, and driven them so to dance on the surface of the earth that I would willingly obey thee. But it is not permitted me to pass between thee and the world of men thou hast known.” Then the king was silent. At length he said, “If thou art really what thou sayest, show me what thou canst do; build me a palace.” The old man lifted his pipe in both his trembling hands, and began to blow. It was a strange instrument, for it not only produced the shriller sounds of the lute, and the piercing notes of the trumpet, but resounded with the hollow booming of great organ pipes, and amongst all came ever and again a sharp and sonorous clang as of some metal instrument resounding when it was struck. And then the king was as one who enjoys the delights of thought. For in thought, delicate shades, impalpable nuances are ever passing. It is as the blended strains of an invisible orchestra, but more subtle far, that come and go in unexpected metres, and overwhelm you with their beauty when all seemed silent. And lo, as the strains sound, outside—palpable, large as the firmament, or real as the smallest thing you can take up and know it is there—outside stands some existence revealed—to be known and returned to for ever. So the king, listening to this music, felt that something was rising behind him. And turning, beheld course after course of a great building. Almost as soon as he had looked it had risen completed, finished to the last embossure on the windows, the tracery on the highest pinnacles. All had happened while the old man was blowing on his pipe, and when he ceased all was perfect. And yet the appearance was very strange, for a finished and seemingly habitable building rose out of waste unreclaimed soil, strewn with rocks and barren. No dwellings were near the palace to wait on it, no roads led to it or away from it.