‘No one told me,’ said the Hazer, speaking softly. ‘Told you what?’ ‘The memorial. And what is written on it. I was not aware that you knew our language.’ ‘I learned it long ago. There were scrolls I wished to read. I’m afraid it’s not too good.’ ‘Two misspelled words,’ the Hazer told him, ‘and one little awkwardness. But those are things which do not matter. What matters, and matters very much, is that when you wrote, you thought as one of us.’
