Bitterly now he reverted to his childish fancy, that his stick was like William of Deloraine’s spear. As he shuffled along, he began a deadly interior survey of his mental state. Like a black fly crawling upon walls and ceiling, his consciousness set off to explore its own boundaries. “I have no certainty,” he thought. “I don’t believe in any reality. I don’t believe that this road and sky are real. I don’t believe that the invisible worlds behind this road and sky are any more real than they are! Dreams within dreams! Everything is as I myself create it. I am the wretched demiurge of the whole spectacle.⁠ ⁠… Alone⁠ ⁠… alone⁠ ⁠… alone! If I create loveliness, there is loveliness. If I create monstrosity, there is monstrosity! I’ve got to move this creaking machinery of my mind into the right position; and then all follows. Then I can stop that old man from persecuting Christie. Then I can make Gerda happy without the two hundred!”