It was as if he were summoning and
discarding something shining and imponderable, like words. The
contents of the casket which all Yaque had mourned lay scattered in
this secret place of which only this strange, mad creature, a chance
pensioner at the palace, had knowledge.
Suddenly the memory of Balator's words smote St. George with new
perception. "He walks the streets of Med," Balator had told him at
the banquet, "saying 'Melek, Melek,' which is to say 'king,' and so
he is seeking the king. But he is mad, and he weeps; and therefore
they pretend to believe that he says, 'Malakh,' which is to say
'salt,' and they call him that, for his tears."
Could old Malakh possibly know something of the king? The hope
returned to St. George insistently, and he watched, spending his
thought in new and extravagant conjecture, his mental vision
blurring the details of that heaped-up, glistening confusion; and on
the opposite side of the table the old man lifted and laid down
that rainbow stuff of dreams, delighting in it, speaking softly
above it.
Pages:
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379