When he realized this, it seemed to Hazen that his heart was pierced and that he could not live any longer. Suppose--ah, suppose that he did get back to the Princess Vista now--what had he to take to her? Could he give her himself--a Self of which not he but the dwarf was the owner? Somehow, in spite of their protestations and persuadings, Hazen said good-bye to them all, to his host and to those who had detained him, and he was off down into the valley alone--not knowing where he was going or what he was going to do, or what hope now remained that he should ever be any nearer the fortune for which he had so hopefully set out. It was bright moonlight when he came to the edge of a fair, green, valley meadow. The whiteness was flooding the world, as if it would wash away everything that had ever been and would begin it all over again. And in the centre of the meadow, all the brightness seemed to gather and thicken and glitter, as if something mysterious were there. It drew Hazen to itself, as if it were so pure that it must be what he was seeking, and he broke through the hedge and stepped among the flowers of the lush grass, and he stood before it. It was a fountain of water, greater than any fountain that Hazen had ever seen or conceived. It rose from the green in pure strands of exquisite firmness, in almost the slim lines and spirals of a stair; and its high, curving spray and its plash and murmur made it rather like a gigantic white tree, with music in its boughs--the tree of life itself. Hazen could no more have helped leaping in the fountain than he could have helped his joy in its beauty. He sprang in the soft waters as if he were springing into arms, and it drew him to itself as if he belonged to it. The waters flowed over him, and he felt purified, and as if a healing light had shone through him, body and mind. But to his amazement, he did not remain in the fountain’s basin. Gently, as if he were upborne by unseen hands, he mounted with the rise of the fountain, in its slim lines and spirals, until he found himself high above the meadow in a silvery tower that was thrown out from the fountain itself. And there, alone in that lofty silence, it was as if he were face to face with himself and could see his own heart. Then the Thought spoke to him which had spoken to him long ago that morning in the king’s kitchen, and again on that first night in the wood. “Hazen!” it said, “you are not wise or _really_ good or loved or beautiful. Why don’t you become so?” “I!” said Hazen, sadly. “I have lost my chance. I came out to find my fortune and I have thrown it away.” But still the Thought spoke to him, and said the same thing over and over so many times that at last he answered:-- “What, then, must I do?” he asked.