rave old Sun!' said Raphael, 'how merrily he flashes off the
sword-blades yonder, and never cares that every tiny spark brings
a death-shriek after it! Why should he? It is no concern of his.
Astrologers are fools. His business is to shine; and on the whole, he
is one of my few satisfactory sensations. How now? This is questionably
pleasant!'

As he spoke, a column of troops came marching across the field, straight
towards his retreat.

'If these new sensations of mine find me here, they will infallibly
produce in me a new sensation, which will render all further ones
impossible.... Well? What kinder thing could they do for me?.... Ay--but
how do I know that they would do it? What possible proof is there that
if a two-legged phantasm pokes a hard iron-gray phantasm in among my
sensations, those sensations will be my last? Is the fact of my turning
pale, and lying still, and being in a day or two converted into crows'
flesh, any reason why I should not feel? And how do I know that would
happen? It seems to happen to certain sensations of my eyeball--or
something else--who cares? which I call soldiers; but what possible
analogy can there be between what seems to happen to those single
sensations called soldiers, and what may or may not really happen to all
my sensations put together, which I call me? Should I bear apples if a
phantasm seemed to come and plant me? Then why should I die if another
phantasm seemed to come and poke me in the ribs?

'Still I don't intend to deny it.... I am no dogmatist. Positively the
phantasms are marching straight for my tower! Well, it may be safer
to run away, on the chance. But as for losing feeling,' continued he,
rising and cramming a few mouldy crusts into his wallet, 'that, like
everything else, is past proof. Why--if now, when I have some sort of
excuse for fancying myself one thing in one place, I am driven mad with
the number of my sensations, what will it be when I am eaten, and turned
to dust, and undeniably many things in many places.... Will not the
sensations be multiplied by--unbearable! I would swear at the thought,
if I had anything to swear by! To be transmuted into the sensoria of
forty different nasty carrion crows, besides two or three foxes, and a
large black beetle! I'll run away, just like anybody else.... if anybody
existed. Come, Bran! ...............

'Bran! where are you; unlucky inseparable sensation of mine? Picking up
a dinner already off these dead soldi