“I hate to see wounds,” he said, “are you sure your bandage is securely fixed?”
“Your Highness need not be afraid. I shall not take off my bandage while Your Highness is here. And it will not slip,” he added with a humour that he felt to be daring.
“Very well, then: I’m ready. Sandals—a small pair.”
His wooden sandals clicked down the steps as he followed Aristides. In single file they crossed the large court-like entrance hall, entered a passage that twisted and turned inconsequently, passed through a room whose ceiling dripped incessantly, found another passage, and, turning suddenly to the right, entered a circular room whose ceiling was a blind dome. Here also the water dripped.
“Like a cave,” observed Georges, with an utter lack of originality. “One can imagine stalactites and stalagmites forming here and, in the course of time, meeting and crusting together.”
Aristides stood listening deferentially. He knew his man. He knew that Georges, with his insatiable vanity, was seeking to impress him.
Georges slipped off his towels, sat down on the raised marble slab and submitted himself to his massage.
Nothing, of course, can reach the mind except through the channel of the senses. Yet something reached Georges’ mind that his eyes did not see, nor his ears hear, nor his flesh feel. Fear began to bud and blossom in his mind like a monstrous fungus. Yet, curiously, he did not fear Aristides: he feared himself.
“You are a clever masseur,” he observed, thinking banal conversation might rid him of his terror.
“I am glad Your Highness thinks so.”