anishes thee from
His heaven where thou becamest too intimate. Because thou sought to
seduce His worshippers. Vale!--Mallare disgorges thee. Spit not at Me,
little one, for I am only a smile. Spit at this dumb one, this
blubberer, who has forgotten himself in a new sleep.'

* * * * *

"And Goliath weeps. She is gone and his madness regrets her vanishing.
He sits by day and watches out of the window. At night I have found him
staring at the couch where he lay with my shadow. He kneels beside it
with his grotesque arms flung out, embracing memories.

"His madness flatters me. Yet it is a thing to be studied. His eyes are
insane. They roll continually in their sockets. He beats himself,
knocking his fists against his head. And I have discovered him on the
floor doubled up, his head buried in his arms. He does not hear me but
remains, while I move around, immobile as an idol. Yes, little Goliath
is mad. But he cannot recover the illusion whose memory haunts his dark
soul. He suffers. He beats his head and his tears are futile. For she
was mine. Mallare created her. Mallare destroyed her. There is a
temptation at times to return her--not to Mallare but to this poor
dwarf who expires under his grief.

"I am tempted by his madness. Goliath has found no God in his black
heaven. I would be his God and create for him as I may for Myself. But I
am wary of such altruism. He is still My servant and looks after Me. But
My smile watches him with caution. His eyes roll too much.

"Since I rid myself of her, there has been no mutiny. I sit and
contemplate problems that have grown too simple for me. And when I am
bored with studying Goliath's madness, I divert myself with my friend,
the lodge brother. A baffling imbecile who withholds himself slyly. I
have not yet come to an understanding with him. There are too few facts
to go on. He is silent. He weeps. My name sleeps forever on his lips.
And once he babbled to me of blood on my hands. These are the only
realities that form a key to him.

"His presence remains a discomfort. We sit and stare at each other. And
I talk quietly to him.

"'You are an inconsistent ass,' I say. 'You were first an obvious
pathologic symptom--an illusory conscience born to adorn the grief of my
senses that fancied they had murdered Rita, the phantom. But then when
you found her alive, what did you do? Did you vanish as, in all logic,
you should? For Rita was not murdered a