The Wandering Host

THERE was once a great mountain which rose from the shore of the sea, and on its flanks it bore a mighty forest. The slopes of the mountain were green with soft grass and white s and rosy with the flowers of spring. But beyond the crest the mountain grew harsh and wild, then ridges and gullies, peaks and chasms, springs and torrents. Farther on lay a sandy desert, which stretched its monotonous breadth to the shore of a wide, swift river. What lay beyond the river no one knew, because its shores were always hid in azure mist. Year by year there came up from the shore of the sea an innumerable company of men and women. Each one must hasten over the green meadows to cross the mountain and the forest, faring onward toward the desert and the river. And this was one condition of the journey,--that whosoever came to the river must breast its waters alone. Why this was so, no one could tell; nor did any one know aught of the land beyond. For of the multitude page who had crossed the river not one had ever returned.