The marble pools in the open square were empty; and at one of them there was a crowd looking at a man who was being beaten with rods. A bystander told me that the officers of the city had ordered him to be punished because he had said that the pools and the basins and the channels were not all of pure marble, without a flaw. “For this,” said he, “is the evil doctrine that has come in to take away the glory of our city, and because of this the water has failed.” “It is a sad change,” I answered, “and doubtless they who have caused it should suffer more than others. But can you tell me at what hour and in what manner the people now observe the visitation of the Source?” He looked curiously at me and replied: “I do not understand you. There is no visitation save the inspection of the cisterns and the wells which the syndics of the city, whom we call the Princes of Water, carry on daily at every hour. What source is this of which you speak?” So I went on through the street, where all the passers-by seemed in haste and wore weary countenances, until I came to the house where I had lodged. There was a little basin here against the wall, with a slender stream of water still flowing into it, and a group of children standing near with their pitchers, waiting to fill them. The door of the house was closed; but when I knocked, it opened and a maiden came forth. She was pale and sad in aspect, but a light of joy dawned over the snow of her face, and I knew by the youth in her eyes that it was Ruamie, who had walked with me through the vineyards long ago. With both hands she welcomed me, saying: “You are expected. Have you found the Blue Flower?” “Not yet,” I answered, “but something drew me back to you. I would know how it fares with you, and I would go again with you to visit the Source.” At this her face grew bright, but with a tender, half-sad brightness. “The Source!” she said. “Ah, yes, I was sure that you would remember it. And this is the hour of the visitation. Come, let us go up together.” Then we went alone through the busy and weary multitudes of the city toward the mountain-path. So forsaken was it and so covered with stones and overgrown with wire-grass that I could not have found it but for her guidance. But as we climbed upward the air grew clearer, and more sweet, and I questioned her of the things that had come to pass in my absence. I asked her of the kind old man who had taken me into his house when I came as a stranger. She said, softly, “He is dead.” “And where are the men and women, his friends, who once thronged this pathway? Are they also dead?” “They also are dead.” “But where are the younger ones who sang here so gladly as they marched upward? Surely they, are living?” “They have forgotten.” “Where then are the young children whose fathers taught them this way and bade them remember it. Have they forgotten?” “They have forgotten.”