“Who will descend the Glory Hall to pay devoirs to the country’s goddess.”
I had followed him quite plainly. When he stopped, in the silence that followed a great light filled my eyes, as the idea that engendered it filled my mind.
I a“rose” in my seat, which latter is a rose vine—insignia of aurora—which word I hear in suppressed intuition in application to myself as a branch of bloom settles on my head wreath-like. Raising my hands in acceptance of the undertaking, they look calmly at me, incredulous, when I speak in full earnest tones:
“I will go, God of the universe, Creator of aurora has led me hither for that purpose.”
Sitting again, they are convinced, and much upset in their calculations, that I so small should answer the great request.
In their surprise I get full revenge of all I have been subject of so long.
Now, all look at Savant, which occasions me to do the same. The phenomenal wave of thought, individual to him, wraps his countenance in stormy struggle. He speaks:
“We cannot accept, in duty to guest and stranger.” But I gesture firmly.
Again he is submerged with greater struggles to exhaustion of his great strength, when an enduring calm arises in his face, like a smiling island in a hurricane tossed sea. Waving his hands, as I had done, he speaks:
“I will take you.”