“Cela m’est égal, M. Quatremains-Quatrepattes,” said I.
“Ah!” he said; “but I will convince thee at once. Describe to me thy dream.”
“I dreamt I wrestled with an angel and was overthrown.”
“Thy mistress has quarrelled with and rejected thee.”
“An obvious deduction. Yet I will assure you she is no angel.”
“Canst thou say so? But we are all of the seed of Lucifer. Proceed.”
“I dreamt how a great march grew out of a single accident of sound.”
Here I was watchful of him, and I saw some relish twitch his lips. He assumed an air of tense introspection, groping with his soul, like a fakir, amongst the reflex images thrown upon the backs of his eyeballs.
“I hear a note,” he said presently, as if speaking to himself—“one vibrant accent like the clipt song of a bullet. Is it struck from an instrument or from any resounding vessel? It comes down the wind—it clangs—it passes. Nay—it signifies only that some winged insect has fled by the ear of a solitary traveller resting on an ancient bridge; yet from that little bugle-sound shall the traveller learn to date the processes of a long and fruitless journey.”
I broke into a great laugh.