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On a low bed, with his eyes fastened eagerly upon the door, lies Paul Rodney, the dews of death already on his face. Yew-trees—grown till they form high walls—are cut and shaped in prim and perfect order, some like the walls of ancient Troy, some like steps of stairs. Little doors are opened through them, and passing in and out one walks on for a mile almost, until one loses one's way and grows puzzled how to extricate one's self from so charming a maze. "Now, soon you will go home. I wish to tell you something and you must be wise and listen. I am the only chief; everything is mine; I made the earth, the mountains, the prairies, the rivers, and the forests; I made the people and all the animals. This is why I say that I alone am chief. I can never die. It is true the winter makes me old and weak, but every summer I grow young again..
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When it was almost night, and time for the Sun to come home, the Moon hid Scarface under a pile of robes. As soon as the Sun got to the doorway he said, "A strange person is here." Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, sails with offended dignity from the room. "Now make him your best curtsey, Dolly," says Mr. Darling, seriously; "it isn't everyday you will get such a pretty speech as that." "So it is really, Mrs. Geoffrey, you know," says Nolly, placing his hand on her other shoulder to give her a second shake. "Nick's quite right. Don't take it to heart; don't now. You might as well say the gunsmith who originally sold him the fatal weapon is responsible for this unhappy event, as—as that you are.".
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