. . .
The funeral procession marches past and fades into the west. The Devil watches until he can’t see them any more.
Then he wanders for a while, blindly. He doesn’t even know where he’s going.
He stops to pet a goat and leaves boiling Devil’s blood all over some subterranean hill.
“There’s a good goat,” he says, inaccurately, and without really paying attention to it.
The wind blows. He pulls his coat tighter around him.
The sun-bird fades to night.
Finally, he spins himself into a column of flame, rises through a chimney and up and out onto the world.