With an air of surprise, the wayfarer turned and walked back.
What is the matter? he asked.
Can you not see?
irritably. I cannot lower my arm; it is bewitched.
The wayfarer looked with interest at
Banshee's arm. How
did it get up there? he asked.
I - I - it went up there; that is all. What
does it matter how it got up there? What matters is that it won't come
down. How can I live if my arm stays above my head like this?
The wayfarer smiled. How would I live if it
came down? he asked.
For some time Buckshee and the wayfarer looked at each other without
speaking. Buckshee in fear and guilt, understanding that he was known to
be a murderer and understanding also that somehow this man held him in
his power. But in the face of the. wayfarer there was such kindness and
goodwill that Banshee's fear soon melted away, and he found himself looking
into that face as into the very heart of security. He felt warmed by an
unaccountable and unfamiliar peace.
The fact is, the wayfarer said
at last, that the remedy for all suffering lies
in the destruction of its cause. That is why it matters how your arm got
up there. But never mind. Pick up your knife.
Banshee's arm suddenly relaxed and fell to his side. He rubbed his
shoulder, which had grown stiff, and, never taking his eyes from the wayfarer's
face lest it disappear, he knelt down and recovered his knife. He wiped
the dust from it and put it in his belt.