With a sigh, he began to pace back and forth through the hall, his hands
in his pockets, and his grey head bowed. Before him was his own
portrait, in uniform, his hand upon his sword. The sword itself, hanging
in a corner of the hall, was dull and lifeless now. He had a curious
sense that his work was done.
The tiny stream, rising from some cool pool among the mountains, is not
unlike man's own beginning, for, at first, it gives no hint of its
boundless possibilities. Grown to a river, taking to itself the water
from a thousand secret channels, it leaps down the mountain, heedless of
rocky barriers, with all the joy of lusty youth.
The river itself portrays humanity precisely, with its tortuous
windings, its accumulation of driftwood, its unsuspected depths, and its
crystalline shallows, singing in the Summer sun. Barriers may be built
across its path, but they bring only power, as the conquering of an
obstacle is always sure to do. Sometimes when the rocks and stone-clad
hills loom large ahead, and eternity itself would be needed to carve a
passage, there is an easy way around.
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