"This is the way out!" he shouted, and pointed to the silver tub that contained the champagne bottle.
His voice sounded loudly above the music.
"The way out!" he repeated. He got to his feet. His eyes were congested. The sweat streamed down his cheeks. "Here," he called in his deep powerful voice, "here, all you who are afraid—here is the way out." He waved his arms. People stopped drinking and talking to turn and stare at him. "Back to the animals!" he shouted. "Back to the fur and hair and flesh! I was up on the mountain top, but I've found the way back. Here it is—here is the magic you need, if you're tired of the frozen heights!"
He swayed as he spoke. Strangely interested, I stared up at him.
"He's delirious," called out the emerald young woman. "He's got that horrid disease."
The manager and a couple of waiters came up. "It's coming," shouted Sarakoff; "I saw it sweeping over the world. See, the world is white, like snow. They have robbed it of colour." The manager grasped his arm firmly.
"Come with me," he said. "You are ill. I will put you in a taxi."
"You don't understand," said Sarakoff. "You are in it still. Don't you see I'm a traveller?"
"He is mad," whispered a waiter in my ear.
"A traveller," shouted the Russian. "But I've come back. Greeting, brothers. It was a rough journey, but now I hear and see you."