But as they passed by the prophet they seemed so cool and free and the desert so blinding and hot that he stretched up his arms towards them. Then it seemed happy to fly and pleasant to follow behind great white wings, and he was with the three flamingoes up in the cool above the desert, and their voices cried before him: “Going South, Going South,” and the desert below him mumbled: “Who knows? Who knows?” Sometimes the earth stretched up towards them with peaks of mountains, sometimes it fell away in steep ravines, blue rivers sang to them as they passed above them, or very faintly came the song of breezes in lone orchards, and far away the sea sang mighty dirges of old forsaken isles. But it seemed that in all the world there was nothing only to be going South. It seemed that somewhere the South was calling to her own, and that they were going South. But when the prophet saw that they had passed above the edge of Earth, and that far away to the North of them lay the Moon, he perceived that he was following no mortal birds but some strange messengers of Hoodrazai whose nest had lain in one of Pegana’s vales below the mountains whereon sit the gods. Still they went South, passing by all the Worlds and leaving them to the North, till only Araxes, Zadres, and Hyraglion lay still to the South of them, where great Ingazi seemed only a point of light, and Yo and Mindo could be seen no more. Still they went South till they passed below the South and came to the Rim of the Worlds. There there is neither South nor East nor West, but only North and Beyond; there is only North of it where lie the Worlds, and Beyond it where lies the Silence, and the Rim is a mass of rocks that were never used by the gods when They made the Worlds, and on it sat Trogool. Trogool is the Thing that is neither god nor beast, who neither howls nor breathes, only _It_ turns over the leaves of a great book, black and white, black and white for ever until THE END. And all that is to be is written in the book is also all that was. When _It_ turneth a black page it is night, and when _It_ turneth a white page it is day. Because it is written that there are gods--there are the gods. Also there is writing about thee and me until the page where our names no more are written. Then as the prophet watched _It_, Trogool turned a page--a black one, and night was over, and day shone on the Worlds. Trogool is the Thing that men in many countries have called by many names, _It_ is the Thing that sits behind the gods, whose book is the Scheme of Things.