I mean, I began to look at myself, in my own right--and felt, for the first time, the desire to be the admired rather than the admirer. I grew to hate the hellish boxing matches, or free for all in which the other men participated. It made me sick to see them throw their knives at targets. I couldn't box, my twisted hands could not possibly balance a knife enough to get even proper aim. I hated all the wretched mess that they called manly, and one evening Zvoni came to the tent while the men said she disliked the knife-throwing and boxing too, and her eyes nearly closed as if she were trying to shut out some vivid memory. Zvoni talked long in my tent--in my tent and Seebien's, that night and left only when she heard the singing men and women triumphing those who had been victorious in the games.

Shortly afterwards, Seebien came trotting into the tent, a picture of masculine perfection that I had once, actually, allowed myself to admire. But then, as I watched the carefree smile that clung to his lips and noted his easy stride, I almost wished him dead--wished him dead and out of my sight. Why did I not like the rough and carefree life of real men? Why did I hate the sight of a dagger and target? I, with half a body--twisted limbs, and shaking hands. What could I do on the mat or with a knife and target? And there before me stood, the man whom I wanted to be, Seebien the perfect--Seebien admired, Seebien the active--Seebien the victorious. There he stood before me, throwing, carelessly, the victor's boquet to the floor, as if if were a weed.

"Be gay Hunchie", he said to me. "What's on your mind"?

Hunch--how true! Yet I despised the word, that name, the one who had just uttered it, that which gave him cause to call me that. My soul was suddenly filled with hatred for everything--for everybody--everybody except Zvoni--Zvoni I kept telling myself over and over again was different--She understood me--But I was mistaken in Zvoni--