“‘He will never see her, never hold her. The time is not yet.’ “‘Then there is no hope?’ cried the hunter. “‘There is this,’ said Wisdom. ‘Some men have climbed on those mountains; circle above circle of bare rock they have scaled; and wandering there in those high regions some have chanced to pick up on the ground, one white, silver feather dropped from the wing of Truth. And it shall come to pass,’ said the old man, raising himself prophetically and pointing with his finger to the sky, ‘it shall come to pass, that, when enough of those silver feathers shall have been gathered by the hands of men, and shall have been woven into a cord, and the cord into a net, that in _that_ net Truth may be captured. _Nothing but Truth can hold Truth.’_ “The hunter arose. ‘I will go,’ he said. “But Wisdom detained him. “‘Mark you well--who leaves these valleys never returns to them. Though he should weep tears of blood seven days and nights upon the confines, he can never put his foot across them. Left,--they, are left forever. Upon the road which you would travel, there is no reward offered. Who goes, goes freely, for the great love that is in him. The work is his reward.’ “‘I go,’ said the hunter; ‘but upon the mountains, tell me, which path shall I take?’ “‘I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge-of Ages,’ said the man; ‘I can walk only where many men have trodden. On those mountains few feet have passed; each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at his own peril; my voice he hears no more. I may follow after him, but I cannot go before him.’ “Then Knowledge vanished. “And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and with his hands broke down the bars, and jagged iron tore his flesh. It is sometimes easier to build than to break. “One by one he took his plumed birds, and let them fly. But, when he came to his dark-plumed bird, he held it, and looked into its beautiful eyes, and the bird uttered its low deep cry,--‘Immortality!’ “And he said quickly, ‘I cannot part with it. It is not heavy; it eats no food. I will hide it in my breast; I will take it with me.’ And he buried it there, and covered it over with his cloak. “But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, heavier,--till it lay on his breast like lead. He could not move with it. He could not leave those valleys with it. Then again he took it out, and looked at it. “‘Oh, my beautiful, my heart’s own!’ he cried, ‘may I not keep you?’ “He opened his hands sadly. “‘Go,’ he said. ‘It may happen that in Truth’s song one note is like to yours; but I shall never hear it.’ “Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from him forever. “Then from the Shuttle of Imagination he took the thread of his Wishes and threw it on the ground, and the empty shuttle he put into his breast; for the thread was made in those valleys, but the shuttle came from an unknown country. He turned to go; but now the people came about him, howling.