He stares at the bricked-up window. What is this, all that is outside? It has nothing to do with me! What is it?

He comes no further, he must direct the stream.

Here is a bell. He strikes it now and then, but less and less often because it always has the same result. He strikes the bell: at once a gilded official stands in front of him bowing politely in anticipation.

The man who directs the arrows asks: ‘What is really happening? What is here, at this moment?’

For the house is cracking.

He gestures with his hand as if towards everything he imagines to be here, and repeats: ‘What is here?’

‘The dross,’ answers the other. ‘All the dross we still have left. But it will be removed gradually.’

The lord of the arrows does not answer, because this is the same reply he has had word for word each time he has rung and asked. It comes back full circle. And in his brain circles the stream of arrows that he has to direct. He has no time to ask further about the dross.

The other leans over and says, ‘They go deep down. Even under here. But it will be removed.’

The man who directs the arrows is not listening to him; he has to keep his eyes on the glittering parade. The official who has been summoned counts the mandatory three seconds to himself, and when his questioner still says nothing he asks respectfully, ‘Is there anything else?’

The lord of the arrows is struggling to get something out in the midst of the burning parade, but it only turns into the usual muttered cry of anguish: ‘No! I must have peace.’

The gilded official bows as if to say: We all know that. He waits to see if there is anything else, but when there is not, he counts three seconds and says, softly and seriously and responsibly as before: ‘Death will cleanse the house….’

No answer. All he gets is an exhausted look. He waits the statutory length of time, and completes it: ‘…so that everything may come about as planned.’

The man with his brain full of the bewitched arrows still doesn’t reply. He has heard all this hundreds of times. Everything is going round and round – the consuming circuit of arrows keeps him chained to this chair. Not for an instant do they pause, and not for an instant can he escape them. The blinding light from them inflames his brain. They suddenly appear in there, and beyond that he knows nothing. They are bewitched, and he is chained to this painful guarding of them whether he wishes it or no. I must hold out, he thinks, but what is it all about?

So that everything may come about as planned, says a voice in front of him. He has heard it countless times before, he is not listening. He makes a tiny movement with his right hand. The gilded official has been waiting for this movement. He murmurs a greeting and is gone, silently and quickly, as if the earth has swallowed him up.