Through hours and hours of the night our boat goes on, whether we will or no, through starlight and through storm-clouds and through flower-light. And the red star at the masthead and the sight of the proud face of Avanel keeps laughter in my bosom, and the heavenly breeze that blows on the flowers still sings to our hearts: “Springfield Awake, Springfield Aflame.” Out of the storm now, three great rocks appear, giving forth white light there on the far horizon, and this light burns on and on. At last our ship approaches. We see the great rocks are three empty thrones. These are the thrones of the Trinity, empty for these many years, just as the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy of Holies were bereft of the Presence, when Israel sinned. And now we are near, and see that the light that hangs round these mountain thrones is because of the vines of gigantic Amaranths, of strange design and of many colors, that bloom upon them. These vines have journeyed up through the ether and great spaces from many cities and many stars. Our boat sweeps to the side of the thrones, and we look down on what was once the crystal sea, a wild green water now, with great fleets of idle boats, moored by its marshy banks, the boats of dead prophets and angels who lie turned to stone on their strange and beautiful decks. “These are the souls who sinned by refusing to enlist in the crusade against world wars,” or, at least, so Avanel tells me from her heart. And this is all her dream, none of it mine, and without her all this is nothing. There are boats of the older days, galleons of rotted magnificence, wrecked and high and dry upon the sand bars, and the skeletons and driftwood of boats are scattered in the marshes by long forgotten storms and cyclones. We disembark and tread our perilous way among these strange appearances. Sometimes they are as seemingly material as earth. Sometimes we are but walking on the dust of nebulae. Then we walk into the vine-clad forest that covers the pass between the nearest throne mountains, where broken steps are still to be found in the moss, and whisper to us to follow. There are many butterflies and bees that have taken too much of the blood of the fruit of the Amaranth Flower and are fallen down and some of them dead. The stair leads us up and through a dark pass and down into a deeper twilight. And the stair, slowly descending, whispers to us: “Follow.” And thus we go, into the most abysmal and curious of valleys, whence, perhaps, ages ago, many spirits fled affrighted because of the loneliness.