The man obeyed, and, as he swept, at every stroke he reached farther. At length,--how it came he could not tell, for his chains hung heavy upon him still,--he found himself sweeping the very foot of the walls. A moment more, and he stood at the open window, looking out into the world. A dove perched upon the window-sill, and walked inquiringly in; he caught it in his hands, and looked how to close the window, that he might secure its company. Then came the voice: "Wilt thou, a prisoner, make of thyself a jailer?" He opened his hands, and the dove darted into the sunlight. There it fluttered and flashed for a moment, like a bird of snow; then re-entered, and flew into his very hands. He stroked and kissed it. The bird went and came, and was his companion. Still, his chains hung about him, and he sighed and groaned under their weight. "Set thee down," said the voice, "and polish thine irons." He obeyed, rubbing link against link busily with his hands. And thus he labored--as it seemed to the boy in the vision--day after day, until at last every portion within his reach, of fetter, and chain, and collar, glittered with brightness. "Go to the window," then said the voice, "and lay thee down in the sunshine." He went and lay down, and fell asleep. When he awoke, he began to raise himself heavily; but, lo! the sun had melted all the burnished parts of his bonds, the rest dropped from him, and he sprung to his feet. For very joy of lightness, he ran about the room like a frolicking child. Then said the voice once more: "Now carve thee out of the wall the figure of a man, as perfect as thou canst think and make it." "Alas!" said the prisoner to himself, "I know not how to carve or fashion the image of anything." But as he said it, he turned with a sigh to find among the fragments of his fetters what piece of iron might best serve him for a chisel. To work he set, and many and weary were the hours he wrought, for his attempts appeared to him nothing better than those of a child, and again and ever again as he carved, he had to change his purpose, and cut away what he had carved; for the thing he wrought would not conform itself to the thing he thought, and it seemed he made no progress in the task that was set him. But he did not know that it was because his thought was not good enough to give strength and skill to his hand,--that it seemed too good for his hand to follow. One night he wrought hard by the glimmer of his wretched lamp, until, overwearied, he fell fast asleep, and slept like one dead. When he awoke, lo! a man of light, lovely and grand, who stood where he had been so wearily carving the unresponsive stone! He rose and drew nigh. Behold, it was an opening in the wall, through which his freedom shone! The man of light was the door into the universe. And he darted through the wall.