I say, we fought under the poplars, both Abbots and all the monks, and one laid open my forehead to the bone.

See!' He tilted back his cap and showed a puckered silvery scar.

'Just and perfect is the Wheel! Yesterday the scar itched, and after fifty years I recalled how it was dealt and the face of him who dealt it; dwelling a little in illusion.

Followed that which thou didst see--strife and stupidity.

Just is the Wheel! The idolater's blow fell upon the scar.