“I don’t like Tom,” said the Hare, with decision. “Tom shot me when you told him not to shoot. Tom shut me up in a filthy place with a yellow rabbit which he forgot to feed, so that it wanted to eat me. Tom tried to cut me off from the wood so that the running dogs might catch me, although you shouted to him that it was not sportsmanlike. Tom dragged me out of the sea and blew down my nostrils to keep me alive. Tom threw me to the hounds, although Giles remonstrated with him and even the huntsman begged him to let me go. I tell you that I don’t like Tom.”
“Still, Mr. Hare,” pleaded the Red-faced Man, “I hope that if it should be in your power when we get through those Gates, that you will be merciful to Tom. I can’t think of much to say for him in this hurry, but there, he is my only son and the truth is that I love him. You know he may live—to be different—if you don’t bring some misfortune on him.”
“Who am I to bring misfortune or to withhold it?” asked the Hare, softening visibly. “Well, I know what love means, for my mother loved me and I loved her in my way. I tell you that when I saw her dead, turned from a beautiful living thing into a stained lump of flesh and fur, I felt dreadful. I understand now that you love Tom as my mother loved me, and, Man, for the sake of your love—not for his sake, mind—I promise you that I won’t say anything against Tom if I can help it, or do anything either.”
“You’re a real good fellow!” exclaimed the Red-faced Man, with evident relief. “Give me your hand. Oh! I forgot, you can’t. Hullo! what’s up now? Everything seems to be altering.”
As he spoke, to my eyes the Lights began to change in earnest. All the sky (I call it sky for clearness) above the mighty Gates became as it were alive with burning tongues of every colour that an artist can conceive. By degrees these fiery tongues or swords shaped themselves into a vast circle which drove back the walls of darkness, and through this circle, guided, guarded by the spirits of dead suns, with odours and with chantings, descended that crowned City of the Mansions before whose glory imagination breaks and even Vision veils her eyes.
It descended, its banners wavering in the winds of prayer; it hung above the Gates, the flowers of all splendours, Heaven’s very rose, hung like an opal on the boundless breast of night, and there it stayed.
The Voice in the North called to the Voice in the South; the Voice in the East called to the Voice in the West, and up the Great White Road sped the Angel of the Road, making report as he came that all his multitude were gathered in and for that while the Road was barred.
He passed and in a flash the Gates were burned away. The ashes of them fell upon the heads of those waiting at the Gates, whitening their faces and drying their tears before the Change. They fell upon the Man and the Hare beside me, veiling them as it were and making them silent, but on me they did not fall. Then, from between the Wardens of the Gates, flowed forth the Helpers and the Guardians (save those who already were without comforting the children) seeking their beloved and bearing the Cups of slumber and new birth; then pealed the question—
“Who hath suffered most? Let that one first taste of peace.”