Had it been himself? Lying upon his back, seeing only the immensity of
the deep blue above him and the greatness of the stars, he scarcely
dared to draw breath lest he should arouse himself to new anguish. It
had not been he who had so suffered; surely it had been another Zia.
What had come upon him, what had come upon the world? All was so still
that it was as if the earth waited--as if it waited to hear some word
that would be spoken out of the great space in which it hung. He was not
hungry or cold or tired. It was as if he had never staggered and
stumbled up the mountain path and dropped shuddering, to hide behind the
bushes before the daylight came and men could see his white face. Surely
he had rested long. He had never felt like this before, and he had never
seen so wonderful a night. The stars had never been so many and so
large. What made them so soft and brilliant that each one was almost
like a sun? And he strangely felt that each looked down at him as if it
said the word, though he did not know what the word was. Why had he been
so terror-stricken? Why had he been so wretched? There were no lepers;
there were no hunchbacks. There was only Zia, and he was at peace, and
akin to the stars that looked down.