Chapter 18
Mongan and his servant went home, and (for what pleasure is
greater than that of memory exercised in conversation?) for a time
the feeling of an adventure well accomplished kept him in some
contentment. But at the end of a time that pleasure was worn out,
and Mongan grew at first dispirited and then sullen, and after that
as ill as he had been on the previous occasion. For he could not
forget Duv Laca of the White Hand, and he could not remember her
without longing and despair.
It was in the illness which comes from longing and despair that
he sat one day looking on a world that was black although the sun
shone, and that was lean and unwholesome although autumn fruits
were heavy on the earth and the joys of harvest were about him.
"Winter is in my heart," quoth he,
