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before I go.’
    â€˜I have no blessing to give,’ said the Virgin. ‘I do not deal in blessings and cursings.’
    Then John bade her good-bye and took the road she had pointed out to him. As soon as she was out of sight, I dreamed that he put down his head and ran; for the silly fellow supposed that she might follow him. And he continued running until he found that he was going up a hill—a hill so steep that it left him no breath for running—and at the very top his road cut into another which ran left and right along the ridge. Then John looked one way along it to the East and the other way along it to the West, and saw that it was indeed the main road. He stayed for a minute to mop his brow. Then he turned to the right, with his face towards the setting sun, and resumed his journey.

BOOK FIVE
    THE GRAND CANYON
    Not by road and foot nor by sail and ocean
    Shalt thou find any course that reaches
    The world beyond the North.
    PINDAR
    The ephemerals have no help to give. Behold them;
    They are deedless and cripple, like to
    A dream. The kind of mortals
    Is bound with a chain and their eyes are in darkness.
    AESCHYLUS
    Alas, what can they teach and not mislead,
    Ignorant of themselves, of God much more,
    And how the world began, and how man fell.
    MILTON

I
    The Grand Canyon
    T HE MAIN ROAD SOON began to ascend and after a short climb John found himself on a bleak tableland which continued to rise before him, but at a gentler angle. After he had walked a mile or so he saw the figure of a man ahead, outlined against the setting sun. At first the figure stood still: then it took a few paces to the left and to the right as if in indecision. Then it turned about to face him, and to his surprise hailed him as an old acquaintance. Because of the light in his face John could not at first see who it was, and they had joined hands before he knew that it was Vertue.
    â€˜What can have delayed you?’ cried John. ‘I thought by your pace when I left you that you would have been a week’s journey ahead of me by now.’
    â€˜If you think that,’ said Vertue, ‘your way must have been easier than mine. Have you not crossed mountains?’
    â€˜I came through a pass,’ said John.
    â€˜The main road took them without a bend,’ said Vertue. ‘And I often made scarcely ten miles a day. But that does not signify: I have learned something of climbing and sweated off a good deal of soft flesh. What has really delayed me is this—I have been here for several days.’
    With that he motioned John to proceed and they went forward together to the brow of the slope. Then I saw John start back a pace or so with a cry, for he had found that he stood on the edge of a precipice. Then presently he re-approached it with caution and looked.
    He saw that the road ran up without warning to the edge of a great gorge or chasm and ended in the air, as if it had been broken off. The chasm might be seven miles wide and as for its length, it stretched southward on his left and northward on his right as far as he could see. The sun shining in his face cast all the further side into shadow, so that he could not see much of it clearly. It seemed to him, however, a rich country from the verdure and the size of the trees.
    â€˜I have been exploring the cliffs,’ said Vertue. ‘And I think we could get half-way down. Come a little nearer. You see that ledge?’
    â€˜I have a very poor head for heights,’ said John.
    â€˜That one,’ said Vertue, pointing to a narrow strip of greenery a thousand feet below them.
    â€˜I could never reach it.’
    â€˜Oh, you could reach that easily enough. The difficulty is to know what happens beyond it. I am inclined to think that it overhangs: and though we could get down to it, I am not sure that we could get back if the rest of the descent was impracticable.’
    â€˜Then it would be madness to trust ourselves so