“Our grandfather will die,” whispered the brothers, “with him so feeble and the hillside so steep.”
But old Witting only said: “On, children, on—follow the path.”
So they began to climb up the track, and the old man grew ever more grey and pallid in the face. And on the mountain’s crest there was something fair that rustled and crooned and sparkled and shone.
And when they reached the crest, they stood silent and stone still for very wonder and awe.
For before them was neither hill nor dale, nor mountain nor plain, nor anything at all, but only a great white cloud stretched out before them like a great white sea—a white cloud, and on the white cloud a pink cloud. Upon the pink cloud stood a glass mountain, and on the glass mountain a golden castle with wide steps leading up to the gates.
That was the Golden Castle of All-Rosy. A soft light streamed from the Castle—some of it from the pink cloud, some from the glass mountain, and some from the pure gold walls; but most of all from the windows of the Castle itself. For there sit the guests of All-Rosy, drinking from golden goblets health and welcome to each new-comer.
But All-Rosy does not enjoy the company of such as harbour any guilt in their souls, nor will he let them into his Castle. Wherefore it is a noble and chosen company that is assembled in his courts, and from them streams the light through the windows.
Upon the ridge stood old Witting with his grandsons, all speechless as they gazed at the marvel. They looked—and of a sudden they saw someone sitting on the steps that led to the Castle. His face was hidden in his hands and he wept.
The old man looked and knew him—knew him for Quest.