Years On End, And Swords On End

When He At Least Reached The Door The Handle Had Cease To Vibrate. Lowering Himself Suddenly To His Knees He Placed His Head And The Vagaries Of His Left Eye (which Was For Ever Trying To Dash Up And Down The Vertical Surface Of The Door), He Was Able By Dint Of Concentration To Observe, Within Three Inches Of His Keyholed Eye, An Eye Which Was Not His, Being Not Only Of A Different Colour To His Own Iron Marble, But Being, Which Is More Convincing, On The Other Side Of The Door.

The Moon Slid Inexorably Into Its Zenith, The Shadows Shrivelling To The Feet Of All That Cast Them, And As Rantel Approached The Hollow At The Hem Of The Twisted Woods He Was Treading In A Pool Of His Own Midnight.

Cold Love’s The Loveliest Love Of All. So Clear, So Crisp, So Empty. In Short, So Civilized.

It Was Not Certain What Significance The Ceremony Held... But The Formality Was No Less Sacred For It Being Unintelligible

There Is A Brotherhood Among The Kindly- Closer And Defter And More Integral- Than Any Of Aisle Or Coven- For Love Rang Out Before The Chapel Bell