Damar, a thin sickle, hung low, backlighting the featureless black hulks to the east. No light showed; the air was cool and fresh; the only sound to be heard was the scrape of Ghyl’s footsteps. He let himself into the workroom. The odor of wood and finishing oil came to his nostrils: so familiar and secure and redolent of everything that he loved that tears came to his eyes. He stopped to listen, then climbed the stairs. Amiante was not asleep. Ghyl undressed, then went over to his father’s bed and described the events of the evening. Amiante made no comment. Ghyl, peering vainly through the dark, was unable to sense his opinion of the scrape. Amiante finally said, “Well then, go to bed; you’ve done no harm and suffered none; you’ve learned a great deal: so we must count the night a success.” Somewhat cheered, Ghyl laid himself down on his couch, and fell asleep from sheer weariness.
