. . .

The police catch Joffun, later.

He’s dancing in the street. He’s dead drunk. He’s holding up a raw heart filled with all his power, the heart of a three-year-old-boy; he’s praising it, he’s crying out all the wonders he’s going to perform with it; he’ll make a ring to rule the weather with it, a pair of boots to stomp a god, he says; he doesn’t even know half of what he’s saying, he’s sloshing and he’s svart-wroth, and the police handcuff him and they take the heart and they carry him away.

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