"What is that man doing here?" St. George asked in surprise.
"He is a mad old man, they said," Olivia told him, "down there they call him Malakh—that means 'salt'—because they said he always weeps. We had stopped to look at a metallurgist yesterday—he had some zinc and some metals cut out like flowers, and he was making them show phosphorescent colours in his little dark alcove. The old man was watching him and trying to tell him something, but the metallurgist was rude to him and some boys came by and jostled him and pushed him about and taunted him—and the metallurgist actually explained to us that every one did that way to old Malakh. So I thought he was better off up here," concluded Olivia tranquilly.
St. George was silent. He knew that Olivia was like this, but everything that proved anew her loveliness of soul caught at his heart.
"Tell me," he said impulsively, "what made you let him stay last night, there in the banquet hall?"
She flushed, and shook her head with a deprecatory gesture.
"I haven't an idea," she said gravely, "I think I must have done it so the fairies wouldn't prick their feet on any new sorrow. One has to be careful of the fairies' feet."
St. George nodded. It was a charming reason for the left hand to give the right, and he was not deceived.
"Look at him," said St. George, almost reverently, "he looks like a shade of a god that has come back from the other world and found his shrine dishonoured."