"My dear, I don't want to get off!" "You can't, even if you do. A sense of fear of the unknown moved in the heart of his weariness, a fear of symbols and portents, of the hawk-like man whose name he bore soaring out of his captivity on osier-woven wings, of Thoth, the god of writers, writing with a reed upon a tablet and bearing on his narrow ibis head the cusped moon. --Let us try, therefore, to make this retreat in honour of saint Francis with our whole heart and our whole mind. It would be nice to lie on the hearthrug before the fire, leaning his head upon his hands, and think on those sentences.