“FAREWELL!”
One sunset they were all upon the lake-cooled roof, where was the glass
island with its golden temple; the sun was bathing the star in liquid
ruby; the emerald moon, at a point seeming nearer than ever before, came
glinting its green into their skies. There were other moons, too, but
only a single green one.
The loud clamoring of the bird men was even more emphatic than usual. It
resolved itself into words. These words were: “Farewell! farewell!”
“What does this mean?” exclaimed Regan, starting to hinder them; but he
returned to his seat. They had their wings and they had spread them.
From all the vales, from all the hills they rose in black flocks,
shadowing the palace, darkening the air. And with the thunder of many
wings added to the music of their voices, they left the star, sailing
till they changed into a black spot, and that soon lost to view in the
distance.
“A migration to that emerald moon,” said Father Renaudin. “That explains
their restlessness for the past years.”
“Yes, and that accounts for my half-finished cities and my slowly-built
temples of commerce and art,” said Regan. “Do not grieve, Rondah,” he
added. “They are gone, but more will soon blossom.”
“Not so,” said Father Renaudin. “Yesterday I visited the plain and found
that the southern sea had penetrated the chasm. All the bird pods sleep
beneath hundreds of feet of water.”
“Alas! alas! My beautiful, true friends! I did not dream that they would
leave us like this!” said Rondah.
“It is better so. The race of men has now possession of the star,” said
Regan. “I never liked those wings, those black and breathful sheets of
power. The elf men will improve into a humanity. The wingless race is
almost, if not entirely, human. To us and to our children is the star,
Rondah!”