The companions reached the gully and paused. Quasimodo calculated its width and said, "With a little effort we should be able to clear it. Ready?" Receiving no reply, he studied the hill on the other side of the divide. "It's steep, but I don't think it's too steep. And it's ivy-covered. We should be able to scale our way up. Onward and upward, you know. So, again, are you ready, Iago?"
He was met by silence. Turning, he found Iago standing motionless as though at attention, staring intently at nothing.
Quasimodo sighed. "He's lost in reverie again," he thought, "and once he snaps out of it he'll be compelled to lecture me about something obvious that he thinks is a revelation. Ah well! There's nothing for it but to wait for him to come to himself."
Several minutes later Iago did indeed rouse himself as if from a trance and turned to his companion. "You know," he said, "my father was a poet, and I hold a very fine one, albeit I might be a tad prejudiced. He penned many a fine poem, but his greatest poem wasn't in words; it was when he held my hand. The most beautiful poem a man can compose is when he reaches out and holds another's hand. My poet-father gave me life, old friend, and, poetically speaking, if you will, so have you ... many, many times."
"Pardon?" Quasimodo asked in unfeigned amazement.
"I'm in earnest," Iago said. "These woods ... lost in these uncanny woods ... if I had been alone, without you ... I don't believe I'd be alive now. In a way, you have given me life, over and over. I ... I have taken a great deal from you, if you will, and I owe you a great deal."
Quasimodo stared at his companion, an indecipherable look on his face, and quietly replied, "You're wrong, you old scoundrel; it is I who owe you. You see, with a friend, it doesn't matter how much you give, you'll always end up taking more."
They stared awkwardly at each other, but only for a few seconds. Then, not speaking, for there was no reason to speak, they jumped the gully and ascended the hill.
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