Nor had we gone a half hour before several dark squat forms confronted
us: houses. I decided that I did not like houses--particularly as now my
guardian's manner abruptly changed; once more tunics were buttoned,
holsters adjusted, and myself directed to walk between and keep always up
with the others. Now the road became thoroughly afflicted with houses,
houses not, however, so large and lively as I had expected from my dreams
of Marseilles. Indeed we seemed to be entering an extremely small and
rather disagreeable town. I ventured to ask what its name was. "Mah-say"
was the response. By this I was fairly puzzled. However the street led us
to a square, and I saw the towers of a church sitting in the sky; between
them the round, yellow, big moon looked immensely and peacefully
conscious ... no one was stirring in the little streets, all the houses
were keeping the moon's secret.

We walked on.

I was too tired to think. I merely felt the town as a unique unreality.
What was it? I knew--the moon's picture of a town. These streets with
their houses did not exist, they were but a ludicrous projection of the
moon's sumptuous personality. This was a city of Pretend, created by the
hypnotism of moonlight.--Yet when I examined the moon she too seemed but
a painting of a moon and the sky in which she lived a fragile echo of
colour. If I blew hard the whole shy mechanism would collapse gently with
a neat soundless crash. I must not, or lose all.

We turned a corner, then another. My guides conferred concerning the
location of something, I couldn't make out what. Then the older nodded in
the direction of a long dull dirty mass not a hundred yards away, which
(as near as I could see) served either as a church or a tomb. Toward this