coldness sharp as a sword. And the horror of stupendous height, and the nightmare of stupendous depth, and the terror of silence, ever grew and grew, and weighed upon the pilgrim, and held his feet,—so that suddenly all power departed from him, and he moaned like a sleeper in dreams.
“Hasten, hasten, my son!” cried the Bodhisattva: “the day is brief, and the summit is very far away.”
But the pilgrim shrieked,—
“I fear! I fear unspeakably!—and the power has departed from me!”
“The power will return, my son,” made answer the Bodhisattva. … “Look now below you and above you and about you, and tell me what you see.”
“I cannot,” cried the pilgrim, trembling and clinging;—“I dare not look beneath! Before me and about me there is nothing but skulls of men.”
“And yet, my son,” said the Bodhisattva, laughing softly,—“and yet you do not know of what this mountain is made.”
The other, shuddering, repeated:—
“I fear!—unutterably I fear! … there is nothing but skulls of men!”
