For Melusine was on him again, the point of her sword lunging so that he backed up onto the dais. He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. After a day or so, perhaps, we will go on one or two little excursions and see how good your head is—a mild scramble or so; and then up to a hut on a pass just here, and out upon the Blumlis-alp glacier that spreads out so and so.
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