When Titus closed in upon Muzzlehatch in the semi-darkness he could see all this. He could see the embers, and his anger melted out of him. He could see at a glance how Muzzlehatch was bent upon death: that he was deranged. What was it then, in spite of this horror, that drew Titus to him? For Muzzlehatch had as yet taken no notice of him. What was it that urged Titus forward until he blocked the torn man’s view of Cheeta’s father? It was a kind of love.

‘My old friend,’ said Titus, very softly. ‘Look at me, only look at me. Have you forgotten?’

At long last, Muzzlehatch turned his gaze upon Titus, who was now within arm’s reach.

‘Who is it? Let go my lemurs, boy.’

His face looked as though it were carved out of grey wood.

‘Listen,’ said the wanderer. ‘You remind me of a friend I used to know. His name was Titus. He used to say he lived in a castle. He had a scar across his cheekbones. Ah yes, Titus Groan, Lord of the Tracts.’

‘That man is me!’ cried Titus in his desperation.

‘Boom!’ said Muzzlehatch, in a voice as abstracted as the night air. ‘It won’t be long now. Boom!’

Titus stared at him, and Cheeta also, through a gap in the crowd. He was shaking violently.

‘Give me a clue, for God’s sake. What are these “boom”s of yours? What is it that won’t be long?’ said Titus.

By now the scientist was only a few paces from Muzzlehatch, as though propelled slowly forward by an unseen force.

Yet it was not only the scientist who was inexorably on the move. The crowds, inch by inch, began to shuffle in little steps; their heads closed in upon the protagonists.

Were it not that all eyes were transfixed on the sight of the three, someone would by now have noticed Juno and Anchor.

ONE HUNDRED AND TEN

No one had noticed their arrival. A great bell pounded in Juno’s bosom. Her eyes were fixed on Titus. She trembled. A rush of memories filled her. She longed to run to him and to draw him to her. But Anchor restrained her, his hand holding her trembling elbow.

Unlike Juno, the Anchor, with his mop of red-black hair, stood by her with all the sang-froid in the world. He seemed to have come into his own.

He watched every move and then led Juno away to an inky alcove. She was not to stir until he called for her. He returned to the centre of potential violence. He saw a creature break loose from a wall of legs. It was as slender as a switch. A great blood-coloured stone winked at her breast as though it spelled out some secret code. But it was her face that chilled him. It was terrible because it had given up trying. It no longer cared. All femininity had gone out of it. The features had become merely physical additions to the head. The face had died behind them. It was an empty place through which the winds could blow, now hot, now cold, from hell or heaven.