The watcher became then an eye, a rigidity, an intense out-thrusting and ransacking of thin-spun distance. At last he spoke:
"There is a dust," he said.
And at that the champions gazed also, straining hungrily afar, until their eyes became filled with a blue darkness and they could no longer see even the things that were close to them.
"I," cried Conán triumphantly, "I see a dust."
"And I," cried another.
"And I."
"I see a man," said the eagle-eyed watcher.
And again they stared, until their straining eyes grew dim with tears and winks, and they saw trees that stood up and sat down, and fields that wobbled and spun round and round in a giddily swirling world.
"There is a man," Conán roared.
"A man there is," cried another.
"And he is carrying a man on his back," said the watcher. "It is Cael of the Iron carrying the Carl on his back," he groaned.
"The great pork!" a man gritted.
"The no-good!" sobbed another.
"The lean-hearted,"
"Thick-thighed,"
"Ramshackle,"
"Muddle-headed,"
"Hog!" screamed a champion.
And he beat his fists angrily against a tree.
But the eagle-eyed watcher watched until his eyes narrowed and became pin-points, and he ceased to be a man and became an optic.
