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Page 17 text:
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THE DOME Page 1? in his gods? See, here is Montrore, already deep in doubt, in a slough from which I cannot draw him. I pray thee, Zahorta, repent of thy sins, secret and whatever they may be, that the gods may forgive thee and restore to thee thy reason. Zahorta fgentlyj: Nay, captain, I have but recently restored myself to reason. I wish not to destroy man's inner faith. I try to teach him to build his own faith in himself. Gort falmost pityingly at the sight of so handsome a youthj: Thou art mad, mad with a madness beyond human understand' mg. i Montrore: Thou art not mad, Zahorta, or if thou art, then so am I, for I think I understand thee. Thy words have a sound as of silver and rippling fountains in my ears. Tell me more, oh priest. Whence came thy knowledge, inspired one? Zahorta: It came not but was engen- dered within me, by mine own soul, young sentinel. Montrore: My name is Montrore, pro' phetf' Zahorta: Montrore, in thine eyes I dis' cern a longing for that which thou knowest not. Montrore: Oh priest, my soul is troubled with stormy thoughts. I love my golden city, Noone, and its people and its fair green gardens. I love the palaces of onyx and chalcedonyg I love its little humble houses of oak and marble, and their dark mahogany doors. I love even the desert that laps hungrily at the far eastern edges of the high white walls. I would not have it pass away as a dream that one dreams in the night and, waking, remembers only faintly and as in a mist. Gort: Oh, they are mad ideas that he would tell thee, Montrore. Heed not his words, they cannot be true. Zahorta: Alas, Gort, I have striven hard to make thee and all like thee perceive the truth and yet ye believe not in me. fSudf denly in the dawn that has been struggling over the purple eastern mountains and now stands with upfstretched arms on the highest peak, his face glows bright and goldenj Yea: Noone shall fall and soon, and not of gods' willing but of men's fear. Oh, this I tell thee, that men shall never be free till they have thrown off the shackles of their godfwillingf' Gort: A man must believe in something. Zahorta: Then will man believe in him' self for in himself alone is there divine power and fire. When the day shall come that men believe in men and cease to worf ship idols, then the gods that slumber in their hearts shall rise and men then shall be gods and this world grown too small for them. Then shall they wander off to the far stars and the only one true godfheadf' Gort fshockedj: He is mad! He is mad! Montrore fin ecstasyj: Oh glorious inf spiration! Gort: Blasphemy! Blasphemyln Montrore: Oh, godffire, arise in my heart! Qzahorta watches them with a soft slow smile in his eyes. Suddenly faint cries are heard in the city. The three look over the city. Zahorta unhappily, and Gort and Montrore stunned., Zahorta fwhisbersj: It is vanishing in a mist and only I shall remain to keep the name of Noone from oblivion. fThe wall begins to crumble and with a terrible cry, Gort topples overj Zahorta: It is gone. fOnly a jagged bit of wall remains. Montf rore has fallen to his knees and gazes in agony at the spot where the city once was., Montrore fdullyj: It is gone like a morning mist. Zahorta fsadlyj: It was doomed of its own will. Montrore: Oh, my lovely city, where art thou now? Zahorta: Alas, they would not listen. Montrore: That little sparkle on the ground, there sinks the highest golden spire on Agonidan's jasper palace. Zahorta: They had saved themselves had they but realized. Montrore fmoaningj : My father's little green and golden garden, the daffodils and the green smilax - all gone - oh, my mother! Zahorta fkindly and sorrowful, as he lays his hand on Montrore's shoulderj: Cease thy weeping, Montrore, for there are yet others to be saved from selffwillcd doomsf' Montrore fshaking off the handj: Let them meet their fates. What matter to me who have lost the world? Zahorta: Wouldst thou have all man' kind suffer as thou? Montrore fweakening, or to speak more correctly, strengthening a littlej: L'Nay, but 'tis a fearsome thing. Oh, my father's little garden, gold sunlight and green smilax! My mother there among the daffodils!
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Page 16 text:
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