"Listen then, Panehesy," Saakera began. "Let the son of the Sun who has come down from heaven speak of heavenly things, and I will speak of the earthly. We are all creatures of yesterday and we know nothing, for our days upon earth are like a shadow. The same fate befalls the righteous and the unrighteous, the good and the wicked, the clean and the unclean, him that sacrifices and him that does not sacrifice. A man has no pre-eminence above a beast: all are of the dust and all turn to dust again. I have seen all the works that are done under the sun and believe the dead are happier than the living, and happiest of all is he who was never born!"
"What are we to do then, we who have been born?" Panehesy asked.
"The song gives an answer: rejoice in your day, mortals, but remember that the peace of the god with the unbeating heart is the better portion."
"Thank you very much, our kind host, you have given us a treat!" Ay laughed. "Why, I couldn't swallow a morsel to the accompaniment of a song like that!"
"Why not, my friend? Remembrance of sorrow in the midst of joy is like salt in one's food."
"That's all very well, but every condiment should be used in moderation, and this is too much salt."
"No, this is not salt," Pentu the physician said, quietly, as though to himself.
"What is it then?" Ay asked.
"Poison," Pentu answered, quieter still. Mahu glanced at Merira. He sat with his head bent and his eyes half closed, his face as unmoved as that of a man asleep or dead.
"Why don't you speak, sire?" Panehesy cried, turning to the king.