II.
By the rocky shore of a vast sea there once lived an old philosopher. As long as men could remember, there he had dwelt in a stone castle built far above upon a high cliff. Huge rocks for many miles out prevented all approach to the shore by water. Once in a while a boat might be seen on the distant horizon, but never had one ventured nearer. Back from the coast stretched a dense forest inhabited not only by wildest monsters, but also by demons and strange spells—though I am at a loss to imagine how any man could have returned from such an Erebus to report his tale. However that may be, the only access to the castle lay by a narrow, dangerous path up the very side of the steep cliff.
One might suppose that the old philosopher, so fortified against the world, had as many hours to sit alone and think as his heart could desire. But it was not so. The little path up the cliff had been worn away by the feet of thousands of pilgrims—and that at the risk of their lives. Even the death of four men in one year failed to diminish the ever increasing number. The sand for miles along the shore had been pounded into a hard, even road. The sun never rose that it did not light the path to some figures plodding up the cliff. It never slipped to the west but it touched the faces of those returning to their far-off cities—a fearful tale upon their lips and wonder in their eyes. For the old philosopher was accredited the wisest man in the world—nay, even the wisest man who had ever walked upon the earth. There was no secret of the universe which he had not fathomed. You might ask him what question you would, and its darkest mystery would be at once revealed. What lay beyond the sea which stretched from the foot of the cliff endlessly away no man but he might say. For like his castle and the far horizon, Life and Death were playthings to his genius. Exactly what he told his pilgrims I know not. But it shall never be forgotten how king and peasant alike went away marveling at the miracle they had witnessed, though their hearts, if they knew it not, were no closer to the secret they sought.
There was only one other human who dwelt in the great castle with the philosopher. This was Endelhan, an old servant who had lived with his master ever since the time—if there were such a time—when a whole day passed without a knock at the stone gate. It was Endelhan who patiently waited upon the other, caring for his slightest comforts. It was Endelhan who met each pilgrim at the gate and led him quietly into his master’s presence. There he would sit upon a stool close by, silently listening, gravely staring upon scholar and fool. Little did he understand the wisdom that he heard; the philosopher’s words to him were meaningless. That he was a very great man Endelhan realized, but his mute affection was born mainly of their long years in close contact together. Sometimes a whole day would pass with no more than a few words between them. To the philosopher Endelhan was a good servant—of low intelligence, to be sure, but careful and satisfactory. To Endelhan his master was a feeble old man whose care and comfort it was his duty to serve.
One dark night they say a boat came in on the tide and slipped away again before the dawn. The next day the pilgrims found the gate barred and their calls unanswered. Slowly the word passed from land to land that the old philosopher had uttered his last prophecy. And the dangerous little path which so many had perilously climbed was gradually overgrown, until to-day the castle stands upon the cliff inaccessible to all chance travellers.
One thing more may be added. When you, too, have slipped out with the tide and sailed that sea, you will stand on some far shore before the Master and that “goodly companie”. Surprising to say, you will find that the old philosopher is not there. Asking patiently, you will meet one or two who remember such a one—“wise in his own conceits”. That was long ago; he has passed on. But lo! At the feet of the Master with silent lips and eyes upon all who come sits Endelhan—faithful servant.