"We do not know," was the reply; "only onwards and onwards to the dark mountains!"
Slower and slower grew the footsteps of the Wanderers, more and more regretful the glances they cast behind. Slower, yet with fewer pauses. The strange restless impulse drove them steadily on, until, wearied and tottering, they began the ascent of the dark mountains.
"What is on the other side?" I asked.
"The sea," they said, "the Great Sea."
"How will you cross it, and what is beyond?"
"We know not," they said, with bitter tears. "But we are a doomed race of Wanderers—onwards, onwards; we may not stay!"
Then first I perceived that, among these multitudes of aimless Wanderers, there was one band who kept close together, and moved with a freedom and a purpose, as if they journeyed on not from a blind, irresistible impulse, but from choice. Their looks were seldom turned regretfully behind them, or only on the dark mountains. They looked to something higher.
I asked them—"Why are you thus hasting on?"
"We are Pilgrims," they replied; "we would not linger here."
"Whither are you going?" I inquired.