It is gone, and we too are going out.
Globe protected from the dazzling light, we look around and see a
slow-going meteor—the rest had flew so fast, we had not time to read
them.
This is so like our globe in which we ride. I cry, “Is _this_ a sky
meteor? This our globe?”
Answering not, Savant claps his bands, a reverberating crackling
following. The other slops and turns our way. In it, as Engineer, sits
the Traveler, at whom I will scowl no more, for by his side is Robet, in
bridal phase.