And not because of her, that she, debated myth, may to herself be justified and hold a sudden mirror to herself, exclaiming, ‘This was I!’ She is no cause to herself, being not other then—though toiled in hydra-myth—than now she will be, is; no miracle of mist born, no mist that into sheerness turns, astounding self. Same, same was she as she is and is to be: last safety against nothingness, where trials of number, power, are stopped from fall impetuous to downward triumph, abyss of lone eternities. There her surveillance, and herself the common treasure—that which is, and cannot fail to be, ultimate something, living thread by which the cloth of being, though an ancient rag, moulders not utterly. And thus she at the last is, and thus first was she, who in those ageing futures was as present doom prorogued in hearsay.