They had seemed low before; they were of an
immeasurable height now, from crown to foundation surrounded by walls of
rock, that rose tier above tier in mighty circles. Upon them played the
eternal sunshine. He uttered a wild cry. He bowed himself on to the
earth, and when he rose his face was white. In absolute silence he walked
on. He was very silent now. In those high regions the rarefied air is
hard to breathe by those born in the valleys; every breath he drew hurt
him, and the blood oozed out from the tips of his fingers. Before the next
wall of rock he began to work. The height of this seemed infinite, and he
said nothing. The sound of his tool rang night and day upon the iron rocks
into which he cut steps. Years passed over him, yet he worked on; but the
wall towered up always above him to heaven. Sometimes he prayed that a
little moss or lichen might spring up on those bare walls to be a companion
to him; but it never came.
And the years rolled on; he counted them by the steps he had cut--a few for
a year--only a few. He sang no more; he said no more, "I will do this or
that"--he only worked. And at night, when the twilight settled down, there
looked out at him from the holes and crevices in the rocks strange wild
faces.
"Stop your work, you lonely man, and speak to us," they cried.
"My salvation is in work, if I should stop but for one moment you would
creep down upon me," he replied. And they put out their long necks
further.
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