And there it was, in that wondrously beautiful place, the Outer-Edge-Of-Things, that the Pilgrim found, fashioned of sheerest white, with lofty dome, towering spires, and piercing minarets lifting out of the living green, the Temple of Truth.
In reverent awe the Pilgrim stood before the sacred object of his Pilgrimage.
At last, with earnest step, the worshiper approached the holy edifice. But when he would have passed through the high arched door, his way was barred by one whose garments were white even as the whiteness of the Temple, whose eyes were clear even as the skies, and whose face shone even as the shining Beautiful Sea.
The Pilgrim, hesitating, spoke: "You are?"
The other answered in a voice that was even as the soft wind that stirred the leaves of the forest: "I am Thyself."
Then the Pilgrim--"And your office?"
"I am the appointed Keeper of the Temple of Truth; save by my permission none may enter here."
Cried the Pilgrim eagerly: "But I? I may enter? Surely I have fulfilled The Law! Surely I have paid The Price!"
"What law have you fulfilled? What price have you paid?" gently asked he in the garments of white.