"He is a poor mad creature," Balator said. "He walks the streets of
Med saying 'Melek, Melek,' which is to say, 'king,' and so he is
seeking the king. But he is mad, and they say that he always weeps,
and therefore they pretend to believe that he says 'Malakh,' which
is to say 'salt.' And they call him that for his tears. Doubtless
the princess does not understand. Her Highness has a tender heart."
St. George was silent. The incident was trivial, but Olivia had
never seemed so near.
Sometimes in the world of commonplace there comes an extreme hour
which one afterward remembers with "Could that have been I? But
could it have been I who did that?" And one finds it in one's heart
to be certain that it was not one's self, but some one else--some
one very near, some one who is always sharing one's own
consciousness and inexplicably mixing with one's moments. "Perhaps,"
St. George would have said, "there is some such person who is
nearly, but not quite, I myself. And if there is, it was he and not
I who was at that banquet!" It was one of the hours which seem to
have been made with no echo.
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