It is the night. I have lain in my hammock for some hours, my arm within striking distance of Pro Bono, and revolved thoughts of that most provocative of mentors, and how he urges me onwards with leading-strings, and how he tugs me back so I should not toddle too far beyond his ken; and at once, my soul moves its several ways: Indignation, rising hotly from her throne, remonstrates that he acts toward me as one would toward the most incompetent of younger brothers; that his superiority of address can in no way be tolerated —

And then comes soothing Humility — who scolds me — He treateth thee as an infant because that is what thou art; thou art the least practical of youths, a flimsy, insubstantial thing, little adapted for this world, knowing only the languages of vanished places and the pretty fiddling of idleness, when all around, the kingdom burns. I might resent his censure; but I deserve it, for I am incapable of action, at best a digger of ditches, at worst, the spoiled poppet he imagines me, unable to speak with my fellow man, viewed by those around us as a prating fool, my speech incomprehensible, my manner stiff; while Bono is possessed of natural charms and social graces to which I never can pretend.

And yet Bono was kind to me in my minority — and yet even his kindness was vanity — and yet he had none of my advantages — and yet — and yet . . . And so my thoughts ran on as I lay cramped in my hammock; and so they run on now, as I crouch next to the hearth in the galley; as I write huddled here, thinking upon my mentor and tormentor.