e street. I have decided there is a way to rid
myself of her.

"Mallare ... Mallare is no more. Madness jostles him off the scene. He
annihilated a world and a new monster sprang up in its place.

"My words return. Ah, tired warriors covered with the grime of
battle--they troop back to my mind out of the dark. Mallare returns. But
what a caricature! See him like a fanatic priest driving the devil out
of his soul with whips.

"This would be a God, this hermaphroditic prostitute who fondles himself
at night. Mallare ... weep. Whips will not rid you of this monster.
Mallare, the plaything.

"But there is a way to be rid of her. Hate will darken the gleam of her
body. She will vanish. But do I hate her? My madness is infatuated since
it makes her so radiant. And who am I that I laugh at my madness? It is
I who am insane. Not this other Eden maker whose mania I applauded. I,
Mallare, tear at my hair.

"I look in the mirror over my bed. Eyes red and gleaming look back at
me. This is my face, but I am no longer there. And whose are these eyes
looking back at me? The eyes of Mallare's friend, red and gleaming. His
friend who betrayed him. Hair slanting over a forehead. Mouth wide and
thin. No longer mine. They belong to the mirror. Mallare's words whimper
before them.

"Weep ... weep, impotent one. The feet of your madness walk solemnly
over you. They kick gravely at a carcass. Lie beneath them and watch
Mallare dance away, whirl away with lecherous shadows in his arms. But
she will die too. I am thinking of death. Mallare the egoist asks alms
of death!

"Windows break inside me. I look out of broken windows. I am gone and
away. Empty rooms. My hands feel walls. Mallare asks pity of darkness.
Pity him."

[Illustration: Sixth Drawing]

[VI]

She sat looking out of the window. He had gone away early in the
morning. It was growing dark now. The cold street dwindled. Windows
lighted up. People that looked from the distance like black toys moved
through the darkening street.

She could tell when he came because his walk was different. The hours
built pointed roofs to her dream. She played behind happy walls but her
eyes remained outside, watching from the window.

This was part of a game--to hide away and wait. To put on her clothes
carefully in the morning; bright silks and petticoats and a dress on
top; jewels on her fingers; bracelets and earrings; gold bands through
her hair. To make her cheeks red