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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 XXIX.
A LAND OF THE HEART’S DESIRE.

Oct. 12. This is the land of harmony. Here, shut in from the outer
world by the crystal walls of the ages, rhythmic vibrations of the
universe have blossomed in a fair, frail, almost supernatural life.
Here the ideals of Ferratoni are the realities of the daily round, while
the dreams of Edith Gale are but as the play language of little
children.
Here, shut away from the greed and struggle of the life we know—few
in numbers and simple in their material needs, fragile and brief in
their span of physical existence and plunged for half the year into a
sunless period of contemplation—the lives of the people have linked
themselves with the sun and stars, with the woods and fields, with
the winds and waters, and with each other, in one rare, universal
chord.
It is the natural result of the long periods of sun and darkness. The
polar night binds them in closer sympathy, even as it did those of the
Billowcrest, while during the long sunny day they have only to bask
in the sun and dream, and let the fecund soil provide amply for their
wants. There is no need of struggle—no effort, save to retain life, if I
may apply that term to this languorous melody of existence wherein
greed, jealousy, vanity and the other elements of discord find no
place.
There is no old age here—our most frequent excuse for greed. No
necessity for a life of heavy toil to provide for a ghastly period when
all save physical want has perished.
Indeed, there is little effort here of any sort. They are not even
obliged to talk, for their minds are as open books, and there is not, as
with us, the need of many words to cloud and diffuse a few poor
thoughts, that in the beginning were hardly worth while.
Truth here is not a luxury—a thing produced with difficulty and
therefore conserved for special occasions—but an abounding
necessity, like air and water. Concealment, ever the first step toward
sorrow, is impossible.
Love flowers naturally and where all may see. Marriage is union, and
separation unknown. Joy to one is answered in the bosom of many,
and grief is the minor chord that stirs mournfully the heart of a
multitude. Verily is it a “Land of the Heart’s Desire,”
“Where nobody ever grows old, and crafty and wise—
Where nobody ever grows false and bitter of tongue.”

If I seem to have waxed poetic in speaking of these people, it is

because poetry is the language and breath of their race. Even
Chauncey Gale has imbibed something of the pervading spirit, and
adapted his phraseology to the conditions.
“The chant of the trolley and the song of the lawn-mower are heard
not nor needed,” he said to me this morning, as we looked from our
high terrace down on the dream world below.
I speak of it as morning, but there is no morning now. It is always
afternoon—the afternoon of a June day, before the gray dust and the
withering heat of summer have begun their blight. We have been
here a week and we would roam no farther. The world, the vessel, the
crew—even Edith Gale—all seem as a page of some half-forgotten
tale—something of another and long-ago existence in which we have
no further part. The spell of the lotus is upon us. The lives of the
lotus-eaters have become our lives.
We have laid off our travel-stained dress, shaved our beards, and
become in appearance even as those about us. Ferratoni is as one to
the manor born. Mr. Sturritt might have been a seer and a high priest
from childhood. His (to them) extreme age has commanded their
wonder and reverence, and his pink dessert lozenges are highly
regarded as a new and most delightful confection. Altogether he is in
high favor, ranking next, it would seem, to Ferratoni, who, as the
favorite of the Prince, and interpreter for the rest of us, is exalted
somewhat unduly. As for Gale, whose physical and facial lines are
perhaps most at variance with those about us, he has put himself on
low diet in order to train down to a poetic basis, and goes about
reciting verses, remembered from childhood, to slender youths and
fair, reclining women, who listen drowsily as they bathe in the life-
giving rays of the returning sun. Yesterday I heard him repeating
“Mary’s Little Lamb” to a group of languid listeners. It did not matter
—they do not understand his words, and his thought vibrations are, I
suspect, altogether too highly tensioned for this deliberate race.
Now that there is no more night the people live out of doors. There
are no regular hours for sleep or food. Soft-footed, bare-limbed boys
bring viands at call, while æolian harps, yielding pillows, and the
perfume of flowers everywhere woo to somnolence and repose. Our
food consists mainly of preserved fruits, also the meat of a curious,
silken-haired goat which these people possess, and sometimes that of
the strange, leaping rabbit creature—these being their only animals.
The flesh of birds and fishes, however, is plentiful, and to these
things are added many preparations of their chief cereal, a sort of
rice, which yields abundantly each year, without planting. Our sweets
are from the sap of a tree, even finer and more delicate of flavor than
our northern maple. Wine we have from the wild grapes that ripen
later in great abundance.
Within the palace I find many curious little lamps and torches,—their
provision against the long night. The walls and floors are draped with
yielding fabrics, woven from the silken fleece of the goat, and from
the long hair of the “skipteroon.” Of feather work, too, I have seen
some delicate examples. Their looms for weaving, their implements
for harvesting, their utensils for preparing food, are all of the
simplest and most primitive form, such as our earliest ancestors
might have employed, and as may be in use to-day in lands where
mechanism has made little or no progress. Their one attempt in this
direction is their invention for dispelling darkness, and this has not
yet been shown to us, for the complaisant Prince has been quiescent
since our arrival, and we have fallen into the way of it all, and are
willing to procrastinate, and to keep on procrastinating while the
circling sun dispenses the anodyne of eternal afternoon.
It is not strange that like the nations of the Incas these people should
be worshippers of the sun. To them comes the fullest realization of
its life-giving glory, and the joyless stagnation of the death-breathing
dark. We who sleep through much of the sun’s absence come
naturally to regard it somewhat as a useful and not always agreeable
adjunct to our lives. Yet even we, after days of dull weather—black
nights and murky mornings—welcome joyously the return of the life-
giver, while to these people it would be strange indeed if the great
luminary had not become at least the shining symbol of Infinity. The
terrace form of their dwelling is, I think, suggested by the sun’s
gradual circling ascent and descent of the sky, and from the topmost
step or story they assemble to bid it joyous welcome and reverential
farewell. The world itself here appears to be a sort of terrace, the first
step of which we ascended when we reached the Violet Fields. The
next is the approach to the land ruled over by the Prince’s serene
sister, whom we are soon to see, for though we are loth to depart
from this pleasant vale, we are daily required by a mental message
from her to proceed farther on our journey.
To-morrow, therefore, or the next day, or the day after, we must
ascend still higher this enchanted river and “pause not unduly, nor
idly linger”—so her august message runs—until we shall arrive at the
palace of the Lady of the Lilied Hills.
 XXX.
THE LADY OF THE LILIES.

And now, indeed, we are in the land of anodyne and oblivion. Once
more we dream and forget, and the palace of the Prince dims out and
fades, even as the barges that brought us drift back down the tide
and disappear in the distant blue. Here is the world’s enchanted and
perfumed casket, and here within it lies the world’s rarest jewel of
sorcery—the Princess of the Lilied Hills.
We have been here but a brief time—I no longer keep a record of the
days—and we are bound hand and foot, as it were, by the spell of this
Circe of the South. In the first moment that we were ushered into her
presence, and beheld her in her white robe of state, embroidered
with the pale yellow flower of her kingdom, whatever remained to us
of the past slipped away like water through the fingers. Chauncey
Gale forgot that he had a yacht, and both of us that he had a
daughter. Mr. Sturritt forgot everything but his packages of pink
lozenges, which he reverentially laid at her feet, thereby earning her
cordial acknowledgments and our bitter jealousy.
Ferratoni, however, was not long at a loss. He could converse with
her, and it became evident almost from the start that he did not care
to translate either fully or literally. He cut out, and revised, and
stumbled. She detected his difficulty, of course, and seemed to
reprove him. Then he gave up translating altogether, and the rest of
us sat there, simply staring at her, until Gale got himself together and
recited the “Burning Deck,” while I suffered in spirit because reciting
did not seem to be quite what I wanted to do, and I could remember
no other tricks to perform.
I finally prevailed upon Ferratoni to tell her that it was I who had
conceived the expedition, whereupon Gale hastily claimed credit for
having made it possible, while Mr. Sturritt—Sturritt the timid and
unassuming—boldly stated that without him and his tablets we
should have perished by the wayside. It was altogether distressing to
hear them.
When we were through, she looked fondly at Ferratoni, and then,
still tenderly regarding him, expressed thanks to all of us with a
fervency that was gratifying to him no doubt, but that to the rest of
us seemed a poor reward.
She added, presently, that as I was interested in the central point of
the kingdom—the South Pole, of course—and that as Gale was
interested in the people’s homes and firesides, and Mr. Sturritt in the
matter of their food, she would have us escorted about with a view to
our observation of these things, but that Ferratoni, whose life and
aims were not so widely different from her own, would remain with
her to discuss the problems in which they were mutually interested.
Perhaps she did not put it just in this way, but Ferratoni did in his
translation; then they both turned away and forgot our existence. We
were conducted outside, ere long, and there was a barge at the door
into which it was indicated that we should enter.
We did not do so, however. The boatmen were in no haste and
neither were we. There is no haste in this land. We lay down by the
shore and looked serenely to the south where rose a lofty terraced
temple, the top of which we had observed from a great distance. We
had been told it was their chief temple of worship, and located
exactly in the center of the sun’s daily circuit. Resting thus on the
earth’s axis, it became for us the outward and material symbol of our
objective point—of my life’s ambition. It was the South Pole!
And now that we are here and it rises before us, the eagerness to set
foot upon that magic point—to scale and stand triumphant on the
apex of the pole itself, as it were, has passed.
“So that is the South Pole,” murmurs Gale. “Well, I never would have
recognized it if I’d seen it any place else. Let’s don’t be in too big a
hurry to get to it, Nick.”
“No,” I answer, “suppose we wait awhile. Perhaps if we wait long
enough the South Pole will come to us.”
For there can be no eagerness in this land. It would be wholly out of
place. Neither are we acutely jealous of Ferratoni. Acuteness would
be out of place also.
And so we drowse in the fragrance of the lilies, and soft-eyed, soft-
voiced people come and sing to us, while the barge waits and
becomes a picture on the tide.
And then there falls silence, and it is as if the world and the palace
slept, and so would sleep until the wakening kiss.
 XXXI.
THE POLE AT LAST.

November ( ). At the top of the Temple of the Sun.

I do not know the precise date, or the hour. Our watches have long
since stopped, and there has been neither the desire nor the need to
wind them. In a land where the sun slips round the sky, and for half a
year no night cometh, the proper measure of time is of little matter.
Neither have I continued the record of these notes, for I thought each
day to visit this spot, and so waited. In the light of the Lily Princess
we have lingered and drowsed. From the peace of her pleasant palace
we have not cared to stray. And she has smiled kindly upon us all,
though from the first it has been evident that her joy lies in
Ferratoni, and that, in the princess, he too has found at last the ideal
—the perfect spirit vibration that completes the chord of souls.
We have become glad of this and rejoice in his happiness. That is, we
have rejoiced as much as anybody ever rejoices in this halcyon land.
We have been peacefully and limpidly content, and their serene bliss
has been our compensation.
Yet there have been other rewards. We have mingled with the fair
people of the court and found something of the bliss of their
untroubled lives.
Also, we have learned somewhat of their converse—that is, we have
learned to imagine that we know what they are thinking and saying,
while they have learned, or imagine they have learned, about us, too;
and in this land to imagine that you have learned these things is
much the same as if you had really done so, for in a place where life
is reduced to a few simple principles, and there is neither the reason
nor the wish to plan, or discuss, or quarrel about anything, what you
say and think, or what they say and think in reply, cannot be wide of
the mark in any case. As with time, exactness, or the lack of it, does
not matter. Indeed, nothing matters much in this balmy vale.
Lingering on a lilied bank in the sun—with—with any one of these
gentle people, life becomes a soothing impression which minuteness
and detail would only mar.
We have learned, too, though rather vaguely, something of the
customs of the race, and the life of those who dwell beyond the
palace gates. They are not a numerous people and their ways are
primitive. Nature provides their food, and their garments are few
and simple. Only the construction of their dwellings calls for any
serious outlay of toil, and in this they unite as in a festival until the
labor is complete. Their harvests are conducted in the same manner,
and in these things they are not widely different from our pioneer
ancestors, who exchanged labors of the field, and merrily joined in
their house-raisings.
Like the people of the Incas, the Antarcticans have no money and no
need of it. The lands are held in common, and the harvests yield
more than enough for all. Great storehouses hold the surplus, from
which any one may be provided in time of need. Famine, war, and
the complications of law are unknown. Indeed, the necessity of law
here seems slight. For in a land where there can be no concealment,
crime must languish and only such laws result as find natural and
willing observance.
Although what we regarded as life is very brief here, there is no dread
of that which we know as death. Death in fact appears to have no real
empire in this land, for Ferratoni assures us that the disembodied
intelligence still vibrates to many of those clothed in the physical life,
until it passes altogether out of range in its progress toward that
great central force, which they believe to be the sun. To Ferratoni this
is no surprise. To the rest of us it is a matter of vague wonder, which
we have accepted as we have accepted everything else of this mystic
land and race.
There are no schools. Education appears to be absorbed through
their peculiar faculty of mental communication or “silent speech,”
which develops in childhood, and is now almost universal. A few
appear to be unable to master it, though their number is much less in
proportion to the race than is the number of those who with us are
lacking in the musical sense. In fact there seems to be a close
analogy, or possibly a relation between mental speech and the
musical vibration—those lacking the ear for tune and melody, they
tell us, being deficient in the mental perception as well. The number
of these is decreasing, however, with each generation, and in a land
where the whole atmosphere breathes harmony the false notes must
blend out in time, and the chord at last become universal and
complete. There is a written language—a sort of symbolic ideograph
—but with the perfection of their mental attainments, it has fallen
gradually into disuse, and is now mainly employed in ornamental
decoration, and for preserving the songs and records of the people.[3]

3. In no place does Mr. Chase give an example of the Antarctic

speech or writing. Even the native word for their deity or their
country is avoided, whether by intention or oversight cannot
now be ascertained.
Of the latter we know but little. They are in the keeping of the
Princess, who, since our arrival, has been altogether too happy in the
present to go delving back into the myths of her ancestors. We are
told that the first Princess came from the sun, and in this, too, the
Antarcticans somewhat resemble the people of the Incas. In fact,
they have so much in common with the ancient Peruvians that we
might suspect a common origin, were it not for their difference of
color, and even this becomes less marked with each round of their
ascending deity.
We are told further that when the first Princess came to the earth she
brought so much of the sunlight with her that the great luminary was
dark for three days, and that all the light there was came from the
heaven-sent being. It is said she found the people a benighted and
unsceptred race, even then ready to destroy the life of a gentle youth
who had risen up among them as a teacher and a prophet. Overawed
by her glory, they had dragged him before her for final judgment. But
when the Princess had looked upon the fair youth, and searched with
her great radiance his innermost heart, she had laid her arms about
his shoulders and declared him her spouse, beloved of heaven, and to
be honored only next to herself. And when she had wedded him there
before all the people, the sun had suddenly burst forth and laid its
golden blessing upon them, and they had lived and reigned and
enlightened the race for many years. And their land she had called
the Land of the Sloping Sun, and divided it into the Lilied Hills and
the Purple Fields, and over the one the eldest daughter, and over the
other the eldest son of each generation had ruled.
Two thousand long nights have elapsed, they tell us, since the
coming of the first Sun Princess, and though the race has never
grown numerous or hardy, it has become gentle and content, and
human life has not been destroyed for many generations.
They are deeply opposed to what we know as progress,[4] believing it
conducive only to discontent and evils innumerable. They regard
with sorrowful distrust our various mechanical contrivances. They
are not surprised to learn that men are still condemned to death in
our country, for the last man so condemned here was convicted of
contriving a means to propel a craft without oars—in fact, a sail. It
was a poor sail at that, and of little value save as an ornament. I said
we might punish a man in our country, too, for inventing such a sail,
though I thought we would hardly kill him. And then we learned that
this man wasn’t killed either, for the Princess of that time, being still
very young and unmarried, had, in accordance with divine
precedent, looked upon the inventor and loved him, and granted him
her hand in marriage—for this, it appears, was their one method of
royal pardon, and certainly a pleasant one for the inventor. The sail,
she told them, had been sent from the sun, so that the winds of the
fields might aid them, which was all very beautiful, though it seems
that the sun might have sent a better sail.

4. In comparing Mr. Chase’s record of the customs and

characteristics of the Antarctic race with those of the ancient
Peruvians, we find in Prescott (The Conquest) a paragraph
which reveals still further the striking similarity between the
two races. Prescott says:
“Ambition, avarice, the love of change, the morbid spirit of
discontent, those passions which most agitate the minds of
men, found no place in the bosom of the Peruvian. The very
condition of his being seemed to be at war with change. He
moved on in the same unbroken circle in which his fathers had
moved before him, and in which his children were to follow. It
 was the object of the Incas to infuse into their subjects a spirit
of tranquillity, a perfect acquiescence in the established order
of things.”
It was the same Princess and her consort who began this great
central temple in honor of their happiness, and who established as
universal throughout the nation the “Pardon of Love”—that forever
after no one who truly loved, and was so beloved in return, could
perish by violence, and no one has so perished for more than five
hundred of their long nights. The invention of the present Princess
and her brother—the dark-dispeller—has been explained to them as
also a gift of the sun, to aid it in vanquishing the long night, though,
as it has thus far never been made to work and is regarded by Gale as
hopeless, it would seem that in this case, as in the other, the sun
might have sent a better one.
This temple, however, is flawless. It stands on an island in the midst
of a lake, or rather a widening of the river, and is, as before noted,
located exactly at the point where the sun, during its daily circuit,
appears always equidistant, above the horizon.[5] It is therefore on
the earth’s southern axis, and represents, to us, the South Pole.

5. It is noticeable that Mr. Chase furnishes us with no clue as to

the astronomical knowledge of the Antarctic people. We are left
to surmise that they believe the earth to be a flat circle about
which the sun travels, instead of a revolving orb such as we
know it to be. Many other things which seem of importance are
also overlooked. We would be glad to know more of the yellow
metal once referred to, and something of their minerals and
precious stones, which are nowhere mentioned.
Each day we have come to the borders of the lake and viewed this
wonderful edifice from afar. When I say “each day,” I mean about as
often as that, if time were divided in the old way, and when I say “we”
I refer to Chauncey Gale, Mr. Sturritt and myself, also to the Princess
and Ferratoni when they chose to honor us, and to such others of the
court as cared to follow.
We have meant to cross over to this island, but we could come any
time, and when we did come we would have to ascend the long
Ladder of the Sun—the steps leading to the top—so it was not well to
hurry. To-day, however, is a sort of ceremonial—the end, or
somewhere near it, of the first period of their long day, which they
divide into four parts, as we do our lunar periods. The Princess and
Ferratoni and a train of followers are coming, so we have set out
ahead, and are resting here on the upper or topmost terrace,
awaiting them.
There are four of these terraces, and they are very high. They
represent the four divisions of the day period—the Flowers, the
Fruitage, the Harvest, and the Farewell. They are connected by long
stairs—two series, on opposite sides of the temple—one for the sun to
climb, and one by which it is supposed to descend after the
midsummer solstice. As I suspected, the people build their
habitations to conform, not only to the earth’s surface, but also to the
solar phases, and this temple is their great architectural culmination
and model.
In the center of the upper terrace there is carved a huge dial, or
calendar, somewhat resembling that used by the Aztecs. It is divided
into four equal parts, and two of these into smaller divisions by rays
from a central sun, each ray signifying a solar circuit—one hundred
and eighty-two and one-half such divisions representing their entire
summer day. The other half of the dial is left unilluminated, so to
speak, thus to signify the long night. In this dial the point of
beginning indicates the direction opposite to that from which we
came. Here, also, ends the stairway by which the sun is supposed to
climb, and from this direction, out of the unknown and uninhabited
lands beyond, a fair river flows into the central lake. Between two
hills in the far distance its waters touch the sky, thus forming a
narrow gateway on the horizon. And through this come the earliest
rays of morning after the period of darkness. The first returning
gleams are caught and borne to the waiting people by the ripple of
the inward flowing stream. And for this they have named it the
“River of Living Dawn.”
 The Antarctic Calendar. Rude
Sketch from Mr. Chase’s Note-
book.

Directly across from this is the sun’s descending stairway, and there
also, and flowing out of the lake, is the river by which we came. It,
too, has a horizon gate, and through it, when its last half-circle is
complete, linger the feeble rays of the parting sun. So they have
named this the “River of Coming Dark,” and down its still current are
sent those to whom night and cold no longer matter.
 XXXII.
AN OFFERING TO THE SUN.

“Which way is north?” asked Gale, as we looked down at the huge

compass-like carving.
“All ways,” I said. “We are at the end of South, here. The center of
that diagram is the spot we set out to reach. It is the South Pole.”
Gale reflected on this a moment, and then with something of the old
spirit said:
“I’d like to know how anybody is ever going to lay out an addition
here! Latitudes and longitudes, and directions, and hemispheres, all
mixed up, and no difference in east and west fronts, or afternoon
sun.” He paused a moment, and seemed reflecting; then he grew
even more like the Gale of earlier days. “Say,” he added suddenly,
“but wouldn’t this temple make a great hotel, though! Center of
everything, and sun in every window once in twenty-four hours. Do
you know, if it wasn’t for Ferratoni, I’d try to make some sort of a—a
matrimonial alliance with the Princess, and get her interested in
developing this country and stirring things up. I’d pitch that jim-
crow electric apparatus, that don’t work, into this lake, and I’d put a
light on top of this pyramid that would show from here to the snow-
line. Then I’d run an elevator up here, and have trolley cars
connecting all over, and steam launches going up and down these
rivers.” He paused for breath, and then his face saddened. “But
what’s the use, Nick?” he said mournfully. “How is anybody going to
do business here? Nobody wants any homes and firesides, or trolleys,
or steamboats, and if they did, they haven’t got any money to pay for
anything with. Think of it! Not a dollar in the whole country! Not a
nickel! Not a red penny!”
It was as the flare of the expiring candle. He ceased. The spell of the
country once more lay upon him. The ways of progress such as he
had known seemed as far off and forgotten as the cold northern pole
beneath us.
Mr. Sturritt looked sad, too, and shook his head silently. There
seemed no need of his food preparations in a land where people
never journeyed afar, and had ample time to consume the ample
stores so lavishly provided by nature, and in such uncondensed
forms. Like the rest of us, he would forget, and let the world go by.
We loitered back to the edge of the terrace and looked down. Far
below, the Princess and her court were just arriving. We watched
them alight from their barges and ascend the stairway that led to the
first terrace. They were a fair throng, and the sight from above was
beautiful in the extreme. In front there came a troop of singing
children with garlands of flowers. Just behind these walked the
Princess in her robe of state, and by her side, our companion,
Ferratoni, her guest of honor. After them followed the people of the
court, young men and maids—all laden with great floral bonds,
festooned from one couple to the next in a mighty double chain.
There was no solemnity. All were chanting gaily. As they reached the
top of each stairway, they paused to face the sun and unite in a
jubilant chorus. Truly, I thought, theirs is a religion of joy and
goodwill.
“I’m sorry, now, we didn’t wait and come up with the crowd,” said
Gale. “Still, we get a better view by not being in it. But will you just
look at Tony! Talk about catching on! Why, if I didn’t know better,
I’d say this was a wedding performance and that Tony had the star
part.”
They were near enough now for us to see that Ferratoni’s face was
lighted with smiles, and that the Princess, too, looked very happy.
“It is hardly that, yet,” I said, “but I think we need not be surprised at
anything. Though such an alliance, I suppose, would require some
special dispensation or sanction of the sun.”
“Yes,” assented Gale, “and, by the way, Nick, who is that little yellow-
haired girl that is setting up to you—the one that sings a good deal
and plays on that little bandolin arrangement—and that other one,
Bill, that dark-eyed one who walks about with you so much, holding
hands, and wondering how old you could live to be, if you really
tried?”
I made no immediate reply, and Mr. Sturritt showed languid
confusion.
“I—that is——” he began, “she—she is——”
“I think,” I interposed, “she is a cousin to that very delightful little
auburn-haired creature, who sits all day at the feet of our Admiral,
listening to “How Doth the Little Busy Bee” and “Twinkle, Twinkle,
Little Star.”
“Nick,” said Gale, “if anything should happen that we ever did get out
of this snap, and back to—to people—the yacht, and Biff, and
Johnnie, I mean—I suppose it would be just as well not to mention
some of the things that happen down here. They wouldn’t quite
understand the conditions, you see—the—the atmosphere, as the
artists say—the poetry of it, you know. You wouldn’t want to say
anything, yourself——”
He was interrupted at this point by the arrival on our terrace of the
singing children. I had no opportunity to reply, but I did not at once
join very heartily in the ceremonies.
The latter were very simple, and consisted of little more than a
continuance of the marching and singing, with a pause at short
intervals to shout a great pæan to their divinity. Then there ensued a
wonderfully graceful dance, and after this a marvellous floral
decoration of the entire temple, within and without. In this the
Princess took but a brief initiatory part, and presently, when the
upper terrace was finished, most of her followers descended to the
work below, leaving with her only her ladies-in-waiting, a few
gentlemen of the court, and ourselves.
We reclined among the flowers, and for a time there was a silence,
broken only by the distant singing voices of those still busy below. It
seemed a sort of benediction after the offering, and then for some
reason there came upon me a feeling like that when at the opera the
curtain descends and the chorus dies into the distance; the feeling
that something is over and completed—that something new and
different is about to begin.
 XXXIII.
THE TOUCH OF LIFE.

The music below grew fainter and died. Those with us upon the
terrace remained silent, awaiting the pleasure of the Princess. When
she spoke at last it was to Ferratoni, and then I noticed for the first
time that he had brought, or caused to be brought, a little case which
I recognized as one of his telephones. We had known that for the
entertainment of the Princess he had been experimenting with his
materials, and we realized that he was about to demonstrate from the
elevation of the temple the practicability of his invention.
Remembering what we had been told of the national prejudice
against mechanical progress, I momentarily doubted the wisdom of
such an exhibition, but reflected that with the approval of the
Princess the result could hardly be otherwise than pleasant. Those
who remained with us seemed also to encourage the experiment, and
showed some interest as to the outcome.
They were those of the inner household. Among them were the three
to whom Chauncey Gale, Mr. Sturritt and myself had paid some
slight social attention (the merest courtesies, indeed, as courtesies go
in that land) since our arrival in the Lilied Hills.
Ferratoni now arranged the telephone apparatus and adjusted it
carefully, explaining to us, meantime, that he had constructed
another which he had left at the palace below, whence a little party of
those returning would presently communicate with us. When all was
ready, he touched the annunciator bell, but there came no response.
Evidently those who were to answer had not yet reached the palace.
We waited a little in expectant silence—then once more he touched
the bell. Still no response—our friends at court were proceeding but
leisurely, as was their wont. Indeed a mental communication just
then established the fact that they had paused for refreshments in
the palace gardens. I thought Ferratoni looked a little annoyed. He
was anxious, I suppose, to please the Princess, though the latter
showed no impatience. Refreshments and pausing were the peaceful
characteristics of her gentle race.
While we waited I found myself recalling some of the former times
when the little telephone had brought messages from the unseen. I
recalled the first trial, when we were frozen in the pack, and Edith
Gale and I had carried it to the top of the lonely berg, and so listened
to Ferratoni’s mysterious message from the ship—the message all
now could understand. I remembered, too, the chill waiting on the
top of the Pacemaker when voices from the Billowcrest heartened me
and gave me comfort and hope. And then there came the recollection
of the weary days when, toiling down the great white way, we had
been cheered and encouraged by the voices of those behind, and of
the desolate nights when I had found peace and repose in the
soothing influence of “Old Brown Cows.”
Recalling these things dreamily, I was almost as much startled as the
listless ones about us, when suddenly on the little telephone in our
midst there came a sharp returning ring. Not a timid and hesitating
signal, as from one unused and half afraid, but emphatic, eager and
prolonged. There was something about it that thrilled me, and I saw
Chauncey Gale suddenly sit upright. Ferratoni, however, quickly
handed the transmitter to the Princess, and held the receiver to her
ear. But as she listened there came into her face only a strange,
puzzled expression, and she did not answer. Instead, she returned
the transmitter to Ferratoni, who now held the receiver to his own
ear. For a moment only, then hastily turning, and with eager,
outstretched hands he held the telephone complete toward Chauncey
Gale and me!
We grabbed for it as children scramble for a toy. It was an unseemly
display to those serene ones about us, and in a brief instant must
have damaged their good opinion of us, and their regard. We did not
think of that, and we did not care. We knew that in that telephone
were voices for us only—voices long silent to us—at times almost
forgotten,—but that now, from far across the snowy wastes and
scented fields, were calling us to awake, and remember, and reply.
I seized the receiver. Gale, who had managed to get hold of the
transmitter, commenced shouting in it.
“Hello! Hello, Johnnie! Hello! Hello! Why don’t you answer?” Then,
suddenly realizing that I held the receiver, he snatched it to his own
ear, but not before I had caught a few brief joyous words in the voice
of Edith Gale.
“Yes, it’s us!” he called frantically. “All right, yes!—Yes, as well and
happy as—that is, of course we’re awful homesick!—I mean not
suffering any.—Yes, warm, and fine country!—Oh, yes, nice people!—
Girls? Oh, yes.—N—no, I don’t think you’d think so—some people
might, but we don’t. Matter of taste, you know.—How’s the ship?—
That’s good.—Biff, too?—What? Oh, ice out of the bay. Bully!—No—it
didn’t work till just now. Too low down.—Why, on top of the South
Pole.—Ha, ha, yes.—No. Temple of worship.—Yes, high! High as
Washington monument!—Why didn’t we try it before?—Why, we—
that is—we’ve been busy—very busy!—Doing? Us? Oh, why, we’ve
been—that is—we—we’ve been studying habits—and customs—
customs of the people.—Yes, interesting.—Yes.”
I had been so absorbed in Gale’s one-sided dialogue that I had
forgotten the presence of those about us. He ceased speaking now,
for a moment, evidently listening to a lengthier communication.
Recalling myself, I glanced about at the others, wondering how much
or how little of it they had comprehended. Probably very little, yet
the effect upon them had been startling. They had witnessed our
sudden transformation from people not greatly different to
themselves into what must have appeared to them unholy barbarians
—wild untamed savages, awakened to a fierce and to them brutal
frenzy by the unseen electric summons. In their faces was a horror
and condemnation never before written there. An awakening,
indeed, had followed the galvanic touch. Gale, all unconscious of this,
now broke loose again.
“No, we haven’t done anything yet in that line. They don’t need any
missionary work here, or homes, but they need everything else. I was
just telling Nick a scheme a while ago. We felt a little discouraged,
then, because we couldn’t get word from the ship, but I’m waked up
now, and we’ll make things hum. We’ll get franchises from the
government for electric lights and trolley lines, and steamboat traffic,
and we’ll build some factories, and I’ll put a head-light on this
temple, and an elevator inside, and we’ll lay out additions in all
directions. Vacant property here as far as you can see, and just going
to waste. Of course we’ll have to fix up some easy way to get people
over the ice-wall, and run sledge trains over the snow between here
and Bottle Bay, like they do in the Klondike. It may take a year or two
to get the place opened up, but we can do it, and when we do, it’ll be
the greatest spot on earth. We didn’t know just how we were going to
get out of here before, though we haven’t worried any, but now you
and Biff can take the yacht back to New York and make up a big
expedition. You’ll have to bring a lot of stuff we didn’t have this time,
and a lot of money—small money—silver change, and nickels. These
jays haven’t got any, and don’t know what it is, but it won’t take ’em
long to find out when they find they can get it for some of their stuff
and give it back for trolley rides. Nick and I’ll just camp right up here
on this temple, and we’ll plan the whole thing, so——”
But Ferratoni, who had risen, at this point laid his hand on Gale’s
arm. I did not hear what he whispered, but Gale suddenly handed me
the apparatus, and they drew apart. I was anxious to talk with Edith,
but I had been taking note of those about us, and I had rather more
anxiety just then concerning developments close at hand. Gale and
Ferratoni stood before the Princess and the others assembled near.
The Princess began speaking and Ferratoni translated to Gale, whose
knowledge of the Antarctic converse was an uncertain quantity. Mr.
Sturritt and I drew into the circle to listen. Perhaps not for a
thousand years had there been such a turbulence of spirit in the Land
of the Sloping Sun.
The Princess and the others, Ferratoni said, had been able to
understand, through him, something of Mr. Gale’s plans, as briefly
outlined to his daughter. As a people they were opposed to such
innovations, and they earnestly deprecated the state of mind and
sudden change of attitude occasioned in us by the renewal of the
telephone connection with our vessel and friends.
They reasoned, he said, that if a very small thing like the telephone
had produced upon us results so manifest, and so unpleasant to
behold, they were sure that still larger mechanisms—of the size of a
trolley car, for instance—would be a national calamity, and result
only in demoralization and ruin. They therefore protested most
vigorously against a further pursuit of these schemes, and suggested
that even the telephone itself be instantly demolished.
The Princess, personally, was not opposed to any appliance that
would benefit her people without destroying their lives or repose of
spirit, but the radical changes contemplated in the mind of our
Admiral were abhorrent to her, and she would not be responsible for
our welfare or even our personal safety unless these plans were
immediately abandoned. The matter of some new means of
dispelling the long dark she would be glad to consider. Even some
easier method of ascending the temple might——
But this gave Gale an opportunity to present his case, which he did
with considerable force. He made an address in favor of mechanical
progress, well worthy of recording here if I could remember it.
Ferratoni translated rapidly, and I could see that the Princess and
her companion were somewhat impressed. As had been shown by
her attempted invention for lighting, she was really more inclined to
such advancement than most of her race, while those about her were
the staunchest of her followers. She made little reply, however, to
Gale’s speech, though her general attitude suggested that the matter
in it might be taken under advisement. The telephone was not
immediately destroyed, and I was now permitted to have a brief and
quiet conversation with Edith Gale—a conversation which the
reader’s imagination will best supply.
At the end I had spoken of the rare beauty and qualities of the
Princess and how we were trying to convert her to our way of
thinking.
“Is she really so beautiful? And are the others too? Daddy thought I
wouldn’t care for them——”
“Um—did he? Oh, but you’d love the Princess. She is so beautiful and
so—so gentle——”
A pause, then—
“Nicholas!—Hello! Nicholas!”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t try to convert the Princess, if I were you!”
As we prepared to descend to the waiting barges, Gale was inclined
to be in good spirits over the prospect ahead. But I noticed that the
Princess seemed more disquieted than I had ever seen her, and that
Ferratoni, and the others, looked somber and unhappy.
And now, too, for the first time since our arrival, we saw that a
storm-cloud had gathered upon the horizon—a blackness that rose
swiftly and extinguished the sun.
Quick lightning parted it here and there and the roll of distant
thunder came ominously. A portentous dark settled on the lands
below us, and the waters of the lake became spectral. A few drops of
rain fell.
A canopy was brought from the temple and lifted above the Princess.
Silence came upon us. The smile faded from Gale’s features, and Mr.
Sturritt’s face grew pale and anxious.
For myself, I had the feeling of being a part of some weird half-
waking dream, in which fact and fantastic imagery mingled with a
sense of heavy foreboding. Only the recent words of Edith Gale
lingered as a ray from some far-off beacon.
 XXXIV.
THE PARDON OF LOVE.

In the Antarctic land, news is the one thing that travels fast. Thought
still moves with comparative quickness there, and whatever lies in
the mind of one is as though put on a bulletin board, to become the
property of all.
Through the darkness of the approaching storm we saw before we
reached the foot of the stairway the gathering of many torches on the
shore beyond. Evidently there was some unusual movement abroad
which could not be wholly due to the coming tempest. In the
gathering dusk I saw now that the faces of those about us were filled
with deep and increasing concern. At the water’s edge Ferratoni
turned to us and said hurriedly:
“The people are much aroused at the plans we have discussed on the
temple. They believe the innovations proposed would destroy their
present mode of life and result in their downfall as a race. They
believe, too, that the Sun has darkened in anger, and they have
joined it yonder in a great protest against us. The Princess considers
it unsafe that we should cross over until she has pacified them with
her presence. She asks that we keep here the smaller barge, and
remain for the present in the sanctity of the temple, where harm may
not befall us. She will communicate with me mentally, and inform us
as to further advisabilities.”
We gazed across at the torches that were now crowding to the water’s
edge. Gale had said that we would make things hum, but he had not
counted on the humming beginning with such promptness. A medley
of mingled voices and angry shouts was borne to us by the cool air
that preceded the coming storm. We could see faces distorted by the
torch-flare and strange rage until they had lost all semblance to those
of the gentle people we had known. The old savagery of the
benighted and unsceptred race that two thousand years before had
been eager to destroy the gentle prophet risen among them, and that
again long afterwards had sought the life of him who would harness
the winds to serve them, was once more abroad, and its cry was for
blood.
“But see here, Tony,” protested Gale. “We’re not going to let the
Princess and these friends of ours go over into that mob. I stirred up
this racket, and I’ll see it through. Any one of us can handle a dozen
of those sissies. They might make a set at their own people, but four
fellows like us can wade through them like a cyclone.”
“Not as they are now,” said Ferratoni. “They are not the people we
have known. As for the Princess, she is holy—they will not harm her
—and these others have in no way offended. It is wiser to accept the
advice of the Princess and remain here. We should only make her
task harder by going.”
I had been ready to join with Gale in facing the people beyond the
lake, but I realized the wisdom of Ferratoni’s words and said nothing.
Mr. Sturritt too was silent, though I could see that, as usual, he was
“with the Admiral,” in whatever the latter might undertake or agree
upon.
The Princess and the others now embarked without further delay.
The storm overhead was almost upon us. Lightning was more
frequent, and the thunder rolling nearer. Large drops of rain were
already falling.
The Princess was first to enter her barge. As she did so, she turned
and took both of Ferratoni’s hands. Whereupon the three maidens to
whom we others had paid some slight attention, likewise turned, and
each followed her royal example. Through the mirk a gentle face for a
brief instant looked up into mine. Then there came a flash of
lightning that turned into an aureola her silken yellow hair. Our
attentions had been the merest courtesies, as I have said, but in the
instant of blackness that followed I leaned hastily down, and——
What the others did I do not know; I could not see well in the
darkness.
We watched them until they reached the other side. The torches
crowded thickly to the landing as the barge approached, and a wave
of turbulent voices was borne across to us. We saw the torches go
swaying to the palace, and a flash of lightning showed them crowding
through the gates—the canopy of the Princess borne ahead. Then we
retired within the temple, for the storm broke heavily.
It was dark in there, and the air was heavy with the odor of mingled
flowers. We groped about until we found something that had steps
and cushions on it, where we sat down. We believed it to be the great
altar of the sun, which we had been told was so placed in the center
of the temple that from every point the sun’s rays touched it, and so
lingered throughout the long day. It was probably about the safest
spot we could find for the present. Then we waited, while the
thunder roared and crashed and the rain outside came down.
“Say,” whispered Gale, “but haven’t I set them swarming! Oh, Lord—
what’s a bull without a bee-hive!”
Ferratoni left us presently and went to the doorway, perhaps for a
better mental current. We followed him, but all was dark beyond the
lake. We presently left him there and returned to our comfort within.
The thunder gradually died and the rain slackened, though the
darkness did not pass. Suddenly Ferratoni hurried back to us.
They were coming, he said. They had refused to respect the desires of
the Princess, or even the sanctity of the temple. They considered that
we had violated their hospitality, and they demanded our lives. They
had not put anybody to death in that country for five hundred years,
but they were ready to do so now, and to begin with us. They had
condemned all new mechanisms, and even the invention of the
Princess and her brother—the dark-dispeller—they were at this
moment preparing to throw into the lake. The telephones they had
destroyed, utterly.
“Don’t blame ’em much for pitching that lighting machine into the
lake,” muttered Gale, “I wanted to do that, myself. But how about us?
Are we going to let ’em pitch us in?”
“There are two chances,” replied Ferratoni. “One is immediate flight
to the court of the Prince, who will endeavor to give protection and
assistance. The other is safety, here. It is pardon—the Pardon of
Love.”
“The what?” asked Gale. “Oh, yes, I remember, now. The old law that
—um—yes—who are they?”
“The three,” said Ferratoni, “the three whose hands were pressed in
parting. They are willing to grant life—and love. They are coming
even now, with the others. You must decide—and quickly!”
It had grown very still in the temple. So still that Gale said afterwards
he could hear his hair falling out. It was probably but a few seconds
before he spoke, though it seemed much longer.
“Nick,” he said, “we’re up against it, hard. It’s marry or move; which
will you do?”
My mind was a tumult and a confusion, but the memory of Edith
Gale’s words became a path of light.
“Move!” I said, “and with no waste of time!”
“What about you, Tony? Are you in on the deal, too?”
“I know not. I am at the will and service of the Princess. She has not
yet spoken.”
“And you, Bill, what do you vote for?”
“I—I—that is—I’m with the Admiral, as always.”
“And the Admiral is for getting out of here. I’ve no fault to find with
the young ladies, but I’ve got business in Bottle Bay. Come!”
We hastened outside. It was still dark and a second shower had
gathered, though we did not notice this fact. What we did see was
that more than half-way across the strip of water that separated us
from the shore there was a crowd of torchlit barges, and that they
were coming rapidly. For once in their lives these people had
forgotten, and were hurrying. In front of the others came a smaller
barge, driven by the sturdiest of their rowers. In it sat the Lady of the
Lilies, and the three who had pressed our hands at parting. Clearly,
there was no time to lose.
We made a hasty attempt to loosen our boat, but fumbled the knot
and lost time.
“Haste, or you will be too late,” urged Ferratoni.
“Oh, Lord,” groaned Gale, “if we just hadn’t left our propeller boat
down yonder!”
But at that instant the knot untied, and we tumbled in. We had no
light and we did not believe they could see us, though they were now
very near. Ferratoni still lingered on the step, looking at the
approaching barges.
“Come on, Tony,” urged Gale, “don’t take any chances!”
But bending over he caught our boat, and with a push sent us down
the tide.
“Go,” he said, “I am not coming. I wait the will and service of the
Princess!”
Yet we hesitated to leave him. A heavy projection, or coping,
extended from the lower terrace out over the water, and in the
blackness beneath we drifted and waited. We could not see Ferratoni
from where we lay, but we could watch the oncoming barges and
were near enough to get quickly into the midst of things in case of
violence. In the end it would almost certainly mean death to us all,
but we felt that with the serviceable oars as weapons, we could give
some previous account of ourselves.
On came the barges. The first with the Princess was presently at the
steps, and almost immediately the others. We saw the Lady of the
Lilies and her three companions ascend hastily to where we had left
Ferratoni. From the other barges poured a horde of wild-faced
creatures, curiously armed with quaint weapons of a forgotten age.
We waited until with a fierce clamor they were rushing up the stairs,
then with a push against the abutment to which we were clinging, we
sent our boat up nearer, and out where we could see.
And now we realized that Ferratoni was no longer where we had left
him, but had retired within the temple that we might have a better
opportunity to escape unseen. The mob was pushing through the
entrance noisily.
“We’ll get round to the north door quick!” whispered Gale. “Mebbe
we can see there what’s going on inside, and it’ll be handier to leave
suddenly if we decide to.”
By north, Gale meant the direction from which we had entered the
country, and by which we now hoped to get out of it. The current ran
strongly in that direction, and a stroke of the oars sent us swiftly
along the wall. A vivid flash of lightning as we turned the corner,
followed by quick thunder, told that the second shower was upon us.
Just below the temple we were caught in a fierce swirl. For a moment
it well-nigh swamped our light craft. Then with scornful violence it
flung us to the landing steps on that side. We leaped out, each with
an oar, and seizing the barge drew it up a little on the lower step, so
that it would hold, without fastening. Then we hurried up the stair,
and crept cautiously to the entrance.
From the great depths within, there came a general babel that
seemed to increase as we approached. By the tone of it they had not
yet found Ferratoni. I believe now that in the turbulence of an anger
heretofore unknown to them, their perceptions must have been
disordered, that they had become mentally blind. But suddenly, just
as we slipped into the dark tunnel-like entrance, and parted the
heavy curtains beyond, there came a wild uproar as of discovery,
then—silence.
We had been about to rush in and do what we could to aid our
companion, but Gale, who was ahead and got the first glimpse
beyond the curtain, stopped us. Then he drew the curtain still farther
aside, and we all looked in.
About the center of the vast depths, the crowded torches were
swaying. They made a lurid circle, beyond which the symboled and
draped walls melted into shadows and blackness. But in the midst of
the torches rose the great central altar, still bestrewn with the flowers
of their recent ceremonial. About its base the angry ones had
gathered, while above them, before the very shrine of the Sun itself,
there stood two of the fairest creatures under heaven—our own
beautiful Ferratoni, and at his side, her arms laid about his
shoulders, the Princess of the Lilied Hills.
Chauncey Gale insists that grouped on a lower step of the altar,
bowed like the children of Niobe, were those who would have
granted also to us the sacred Pardon of Love. But I did not see them,
nor did Mr. Sturritt, and I do not believe Gale did, either. Indeed, we
had eyes only for those other two. Like the populace, spellbound and
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