Hazen hesitated—and in an instant his head was a chaos of voices. It was as if all the little Selves, even those which had now long been silent, were listening, were suddenly fighting among themselves in open combat to see what they could make Hazen do.
“That beautiful thing!” cried the Beauty Self. “Keep it—keep it, Hazen!”
“You will never have another chance at a fortune if you give it up!” cried the Discontented Self.
“If you throw away your chance at a fortune, your life will be a life of hard work—and where will your good time come in?” cried the little Fun Self, anxiously.
“You will have only labour and no leisure for learning—” warned the Knowledge Self.
“What of the Princess Vista? Do you not owe it to her to keep the casket? And is it not right that you should keep the casket and grow wise and really good and loved and beautiful?” they all argued in turn. And above them all sounded the terrible, cracked voice of the dwarf, not laughing now, but fighting for his life:—
“Fool! Nothing counts but your chance at fortune. If you part with the casket, you part with me!”
But sweet and clear through the clamour sounded the solemn insisting of the Thought:—
“Give him the casket—give him the casket, Hazen.”
Quickly Hazen knelt beside the old man, and placed the magic casket in his hands.