He rang the bell, and an old white-haired man opened the gate. He
smiled sadly when he saw the Traveller.
"_And yet another one_," he murmured. "What does it all mean?"
The Traveller did not hear what he murmured.
"Old white-haired man," he said, "tell me; and so I have come at last
to the wonderful Temple of Knowledge. I have been journeying hither all
my life. Ah, but it is hard work climbing up to the Ideals."
The old man touched the Traveller on the arm. "Listen," he said gently.
"This is not the Temple of Knowledge. And the Ideals are not a chain of
mountains; they are a stretch of plains, and the Temple of Knowledge is
in their centre. You have come the wrong road. Alas, poor Traveller!"
The light in the Traveller's eyes had faded. The hope in his heart died.
And he became old and withered. He leaned heavily on his staff.
"Can one rest here?" he asked wearily.
"No."
"Is there a way down the other side of these mountains?"
"No."
"What are these mountains called?"
"They have no name."
"And the temple--how do you call the temple?"
"It has no name!"
"Then I call it the Temple of Broken Hearts," said the Traveller.
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