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How can the camels...? But it is no longer a camel; this is a man carrying me. A man dressed in white, not a Gamphasante nor a Blemyen. Morhange must be giving himself airs with his historical reasoning, all false, I repeat, all false. Good Morhange. Provided that his Gamphasante does not let him fall on this unending stairway. Something glitters on the ceiling.
Four, I say, five, six, seven, eight.... Make yourselves at home, my friends. What! there are no more of you?... I am going to find out at last how the spirits of this region are made, the Gamphasantes, the Blemyens.... Morhange says that the Blemyens have their faces on the middle of their chests. Surely this one who is seizing me in his arms is not a Blemyen! Now he is carrying me outside.
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