“The answer seemed to be projected from a thousand throats, but it reached my ears as a whisper. This tired wind, blowing so, held only compassion. It was unbearable. And it said—‘We love you.’”
Martin’s face became severe and rigid as he told this.
“Go on, Martin,” Deane urged.
“I can’t.”
“It was a dream, Martin. Finish the dream.”
“It was destiny!” he cried. “I murdered ten thousand innocents! I asked them if I was in Heaven, and they answered that they loved me. To wheedle, to coax a smile into their weakening, passive faces, I asked a question....
“They told me that they loved me,” Martin repeated tiredly, and once more, Deane felt a prescience of terror.
“I wanted to raise my hand,” Martin went on. “I wanted to shout, to jump into the air, to sing a song—anything to dissipate the irrevocable impression of death that carved each face into the appearance of a dying flower.
“I was desperate and I felt that I was wrong.