Grasping at my arm, covered with twigs, he spake to me; I heard the violin all around us; I awoke.

I lay upon the ground. ’Twas still night. To Bono I whispered, “We must go back and see whether he lives.”

“They are gone,” said Bono. “Pomp, Harrison, they are all gone.”

“We can return.”

“Prince O.,” said Bono, “he ain’t there anymore. You know that. They took him somewheres. They have their places. The lead mines, out in the west. That’s the new fashion. You know it. The Sugar Isles.”

“They might still be stationed at the house.”

“They ain’t at the house. And this ain’t one of your romances. You go back there, you die or you get caught.”

I knew he was right; and yet, I could not quiet my fancy: We burst into the barn and held their fearful guard at bayonet-point until they surrendered Pomp’s location — we sought him out, crawling blue through the night — the crows called warning — then the sortie — his face full of delight as we hacked off his chains — gladdened — the flight back to Gwynn’s.

And instead, I thought of him in the mines which have been decreed as our fate if we are caught. He may shovel there in that interminable dark, unable to stand; otherwise, crouched upon his knees, sliding upon his belly, with no air to breathe; he who should be at our side.

And this I thought: Dear God — protect him — bless him, for living or dead, he shall soon be beneath the earth.

And I myself could not breathe; I choked; I rose; I could not find air in that clenched tunnel, that throat of stone.

O Pomp — chief usher of horrors — you who sought out death in tales, you who relished death most — now you are engulfed by your own terrors — and I, who am helpless, pray for thee.