Across
the floor of the entrance, immediately within the portal, was a broad
band of the same crystal, marking the formal threshold of the Hall.
Immediately inside this stood the same Chief who had received us in
the former Hall; and as we stood at the door, stretching forth his
left hand, he spoke, or rather chanted, what, by the rhythmical
sequence of the words, by the frequent recurrence of alliteration and
irregular rhyme, was evidently a formula committed to the verse of the
Martial tongue: a formula, like all those of the Order, never written,
but handed down by memory, and therefore, perhaps, cast in a shape
which rendered accurate remembrance easier and more certain.
"Ye who, lost in outer night,
Reach at last the Source of Light,
Ask ye in that light to dwell?
None we urge and none repel;
Opens at your touch the door,
Bright within the lamp of lore.
Yet beware! The threshold passed,
Fixed the bond, the ball is cast.
Failing heart or faltering feet
Find nor pardon nor retreat.
Loyal faith hath guerdon given
Boundless as the star-sown Heaven;
Horror fathomless and gloom
Rayless veil the recreant's doom.
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