Olof looked again. The plainer furrows tailed off into a host of smaller lines and tiny folds, this way and that, there seemed no end to them. And again he shuddered.
"Count them!" cried the voice behind him.
"Impossible—they—they are so small!"
"Small they may be—but how many are there?"
Olof bent forward and tried to count.
"Well?"
No answer.
"How many are there?" thundered the voice—and Olof saw the whip raised above his head.
"Nine or ten, perhaps," he answered.
"More! And what do they mean? Can you tell me that?"