“See, here he lies, slain by brave Horvendile. And the rogues who followed Maugis are all killed or fled. Our woes are at an end, dear love.” Then Ettarre saw that Horvendile indeed waited beside the dead body of Maugis d’Aigremont. And the clerk stayed motionless while she told Guiron of Horvendile’s baleful work. Sir Guiron then said: “Is this true speech, Horvendile?” “It is quite true I have done all these things, messire,” Horvendile answered quietly. “And with what purpose?” said Sir Guiron, very sadly; for to him too it seemed certain that such senseless treachery could not spring from anything but madness, and he had loved Horvendile. “I will tell you,” Horvendile replied, “though I much fear you will not understand—” He meditated, shook his head, smiling. “Indeed, how is it possible for me to make you understand? Well, I blurt out the truth. There was once in a land very far away from this land—in my country—a writer of romances. And once he constructed a romance which, after a hackneyed custom of my country, purported to be translated from an old manuscript written by an ancient clerk—called Horvendile. It told of Horvendile’s part in the love-business between Sir Guiron des Rocques and La Beale Ettarre. I am that writer of romance. This room, this castle, all the broad rolling countryside without, is but a portion of my dream, and these places have no existence save in my fancies. And you, messire—and you also, madame—and dead Maugis here, and all the others who seemed so real to me, are but the puppets I fashioned and shifted, for a tale’s sake, in that romance which now draws to a close.” He paused; and Sir Guiron sighed. “My poor Horvendile!” was all he said. “It is not possible for you to believe me, of course. And it may be that I, too, am only a figment of some greater dream, in just such case as yours, and that I, too, cannot understand. It may be the very cream of the jest that my country is no more real than Storisende. How could I judge if I, too, were a puppet? It is a thought which often troubles me....” Horvendile deliberated, then spoke more briskly. “At all events, I must return now to my own country, which I do not love as I love this bright fantastic tiny land that I created—or seemed to create—and wherein I was—or seemed to be—omnipotent.” Horvendile drew a deep breath; and he looked downward at the corpse he had bereft of pride and daring and agility. “Farewell, Maugis! It would be indecorous, above all in omnipotence, to express anything save abhorrence toward you: yet I delighted in you as you lived and moved; and it was not because of displeasure with you that I brought you to disaster. Hence, also, one might evolve a heady analogue....”