Often after that did the twin princes, Really-Is and Seemsto-Be, climb the winding stairs in the palace tower and look away over the Great Wall of Daybyday to the City Sometime in the Land of Yettocome. Many were the hours they spent talking of the marvelous place that so filled the distance with dazzling splendor. And at last, when the princes were quite grown, they went before their royal father and asked permission to visit the city they had seen.
Now King What-Soever-Youthink was very sad when his sons made their request, but nevertheless, because he was a wise king, he gave his royal consent, and, that the brothers might make their journey in comfort, presented to each a priceless horse from the palace stables. To Really-Is he gave Reality; to Seemsto-Be he gave Appearance; and both were steeds of noble breeding, swift and strong, beautiful and proud—as like even as the royal twins, their masters.
So it came that the two princes bade farewell to their father, the King, and rode bravely out of the city Daybyday, through the Land of Allthetime, and along the way that leads to the City Sometime in the Land of Yettocome.
“And this, O Hadji,” said the Voice of the Waves, “is all of The Tale of The Uncrowned King that is given me to tell.”
The liquid music of the waves came no longer through the open window—the voice that was in the music came no more to the Pilgrim in The Quiet Room. Without the Temple the tall trees were still-still and silent were the sweet-voiced birds. The sunlight and shadow fairies had danced to the ends of the lanes of gold—danced to the very ends and were gone. The feathery cloud ships in the blue above seemed to lie at anchor, and over the surface of the Beautiful Sea no laughing ripples ran to play on the pebbly beach.
The Pilgrim arose from his couch, and, going to the open window, looked, and there, in the still, fathomless, depth of the clear water, he saw as in a crystal glass the wonderful city Daybyday with its canals and harbors, its parks and drives, its groves and gardens, its palaces and temples.
Then, even as the Pilgrim looked, quickly the Evening Wind sprang up. Again the tall trees rustled their leaves, the cloud ships lifted their anchors, the waves of the Beautiful Sea ran joyously; the Vision in the Deeps Beneath was gone.
* * * * *
[Illustration: And the Second Voice was The Voice of the Evening Wind (see king006.png)]
It was early twilight when the Pilgrim in The Quiet Room returned to his couch and to his meditations.
Without the Temple, the last of the day was stealing over the rim of the world into the mysterious realm of the yesterdays. The feathery cloud ships no longer floated white in the depth of blue, but with wide flung sails of rose and crimson swept over an ocean of amethyst and gold. The ripples that ran on the Beautiful Sea were edged with yellow and scarlet flame, while leaf, and blade, and flower, and bird, and all of their kind and kin, were singing their evensong. Sweetly, softly, the choral anthem stole through the open window into The Quiet Room.