“It seems so silly that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself.”
Bull said—
“I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep.”
“I am not happy,” said the Professor with his head in his hands, “because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell.”
And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child—
“I wish I knew why I was hurt so much.”
Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said—
“I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also.”
The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting smile.
“Gregory!” gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. “Why, this is the real anarchist!”