’twas not so hard a task. i thought to find one stubborn, at the least; but my one cogged circle fits into all their various wheels, and they revolve. or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of powder, they all stand before me; and i their match. oh, hard! that to fire others, the match itself must needs be wasting! what i’ve dared, i’ve willed; and what i’ve willed, i’ll do! they think me mad—starbuck does; but i’m demoniac, i am madness maddened! that wild madness that’s only calm to comprehend itself! the prophecy was that i should be dismembered; and—aye! i lost this leg. i now prophesy that i will dismember my dismemberer. now, then, be the prophet and the fulfiller one. that’s more than ye, ye great gods, ever were. i laugh and hoot at ye, ye cricket-players, ye pugilists, ye deaf burkes and blinded bendigoes! i will not say as schoolboys do to bullies—take some one of your own size; don’t pommel me! no, ye’ve knocked me down, and i am up again; but ye have run and hidden. come forth from behind your cotton bags!