"Perhaps not," the travellers replied, with a slight sigh; but it ended in a snatch of song as they danced gaily on. "Perhaps not, but we are a race of Wanderers! We cannot stay; and perhaps better things await us in the plain."
"Whither are you going?" I asked.
"We know not," was the answer; "only onwards, onwards!"
In the plain were buildings of more solid construction, houses and cities. And here I observed many of the travellers would have gladly lingered, but it could not be. Homesteads, and corn-fields, and vineyards, all had to be left; and still the tide of life streamed on and on.
"Why?" I asked.
"It is the doom of our race," they said, sorrowfully; "we are a people of Wanderers."
"Whither?" I inquired.
"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.