The Uncrowned King

Uncrowned King, The

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Uncrowned King, by Harold Bell
Wright This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and
with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: The Uncrowned King
Author: Harold Bell Wright
Release Date: July 22, 2004 [EBook #12991]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
UNCROWNED KING ***

Produced by Kevin Handy, John Hagerson, and PG Distributed
Proofreaders

[Illustration: (see king001.png)]

THE UNCROWNED KING
BY HAROLD BELL WRIGHT
AUTHOR OF "THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS" ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN REA NEILL

1910

To MR. ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS My Publisher and Friend, Whose
belief in my work has made my work possible, I gratefully dedicate this
tale of The Uncrowned King
Redlands, California. May fourth, 1910

"Eyes blinded by the fog of Things cannot see Truth. Ears deafened by
the din of Things cannot hear Truth. Brains bewildered by the whirl of
Things cannot think Truth. Hearts deadened by the weight of Things
cannot feel Truth. Throats choked by the dust of Things cannot speak
Truth."

CONTENTS
The Pilgrim and His Pilgrimage The Voice of the Waves The Voice of
the Evening Wind The Voice of the Night The Voice of the New Day

ILLUSTRATIONS Drawn by John Rea Neill
* * * * *

THE PILGRIM AND HIS PILGRIMAGE
[Illustration: The Pilgrim and His Pilgrimage (see king002.png)]
For many, many, weary months the Pilgrim journeyed in the wide and

pathless Desert of Facts. So many indeed were the months that the
wayworn Pilgrim, himself, came at last to forget their number.
And always, for the Pilgrim, the sky by day was a sky of brass,
softened not by so much as a wreath of cloud mist. Always, for him,
the hot air was stirred not by so much as the lift of a wild bird's wing.
Never, for him, was the awful stillness of the night broken by voice of
his kind, by foot-fall of beast, or by rustle of creeping thing. For the
toiling Pilgrim in the vast and pathless Desert of Facts there was no
kindly face, no friendly fire. Only the stars were many--many and very
near.
Day after day, as the Pilgrim labored onward, through the torturing heat,
under the sky of brass, he saw on either hand lakes of living waters and
groves of many palms. And the waters called him to their healing
coolness: the palms beckoned him to their restful shade and shelter.
Night after night, in the dreadful solitude, frightful Shapes came on
silent feet out of the silent darkness to stare at him with doubtful,
questioning, threatening eyes; drawing back at last, if he stood still, as
silently as they had come, or, if he advanced, vanishing quickly, only to
reappear as silently in another place.
But the Pilgrim knew that the enchanting scenes that lured him by day
were but pictures in the heated air. He knew that the fearful Shapes that
haunted him by night were but creatures of his own overwrought fancy.
And so he journeyed on and ever on, in the staggering heat, under the
sky of brass, in the awful stillness of the night: on and ever on, through
the wide and pathless waste, until he came at last to the
Outer-Edge-Of-Things--came to the place that is between the Desert of
Facts and the Beautiful Sea, even as it is written in the Law of the
Pilgrimage.
The tired feet of the Traveler left now the rough, hot floor of the desert
for a soft, cool carpet of velvet grass all inwrought with blossoms that
filled the air with fragrance. Over his head, tall trees gently shook their
glistening, shadowy leaves, while sweet voiced birds of rare and
wondrous plumage flitted from bough to bough. Across a sky of
deepest blue, fleets of fairy cloud ships, light as feathery down,

floated--floated--drifting lazily, as though, piloted only by the wind,
their pilot slept. All about him, as he walked, multitudes of sunlight and
shadow fairies danced gaily hand in hand. And over the shimmering
surface of the Sea a thousand thousand fairy waves ran joyously, one
after the other, from the sky line to the pebbly beach, making liquid
music clearer and softer than the softest of clear toned bells.
And there it was, in that wondrously beautiful place, the
Outer-Edge-Of-Things, that the Pilgrim found, fashioned of sheerest
white, with lofty dome, towering spires, and piercing minarets lifting
out of the living green, the Temple of Truth.
[Illustration: (see king003.png)]
In reverent awe the Pilgrim stood