Yet the divinely real and the fantastic had been of late so fused in his consciousness that he had come to look upon both as the normal--which is perhaps the only sane view.

But how could he tell to others the monstrous story of last night, and hope to be believed?
None the less, as simply as if he had been narrating to Chillingworth the high moment of a political convention, St.George told the people of Yaque what had happened in that night in the room of the tombs with that mad old Malakh whom they all remembered.

It came to him as he spoke that it was quite like telling to a field of flowers the real truth about the wind of which they might be supposed to know far more than he; and yet, if any one were to tell the truth about the wind who would know how to listen?
He was not amazed that, when he had done, the people of Yaque sat in a profound silence which might have been the silence of innocent amazement or of utter incredulity.
But there was no mistaking the face of Prince Tabnit.

Its cool tolerant amusement suddenly sent the blood pricking to St.George's heart and filled him with a kind of madness.

What he did was the last thing that he had intended.