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Here were innumerable images of Guadma, the counterfeit presentment of the Fourth Boodh, whose successor is to see the end of all things, innumerable, and of every stature, from Hop-o'-my-thumbs to Hurlo-thrombos, but all of the identical orthodox pattern, with pendulous ears, one hand planted squarely on the knee, the other sleeping in the lap, an eternity of front face, and a smooth stagnancy of expression, typical of an unfathomable calm, the Guadma of a span as grim as he of ten cubits, and he of ten cubits as vacant as the Guadma of a span, of stone, of lead, of wood, of clay, of earthenware and alabaster, on their bottoms, on their heads, on their backs, on their sides, on their faces, black, white, red, yellow, an eye gone, a nose gone, an ear gone, a head gone, an arm off at the shoulder, a leg at the knee, a back split, a bosom burst, Guadma, imperturbable, eternal, calm, in the midst of time, timeless!
I think my heart was never more sharply wrung than once at Prome, in the porch of a grim old temple of Guadma; a kitten was playing with a feather there.
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