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Chapter 3

           "Itisadifferentthing,though,"Anselmosaid."Inmyhouse,whenIhadahouse,andnowIhavenohouse,therewerethetusksofboarIhadshotinthelowerforest.TherewerethehidesofwolvesIhadshot.Inthewinter,huntingtheminthesnow.Oneverybigone,IkilledatduskintheoutskirtsofthevillageonmywayhomeonenightinNovember.Therewerefourwolfhidesonthefloorofmyhouse.Theywerewornbysteppingonthembuttheywerewolfhides.TherewerethehornsofibexthatIhadkilledinthehighSierra,andtherewasaneaglestuffedbyanembalmerofbirdsofAvila,withhiswingsspread,andeyesasyellowandrealastheeyesofaneaglealive.Itwasaverybeautifulthingandallofthosethingsgavemegreatpleasuretocontemplate."

           "Yes,"saidRobertJordan.

           "OnthedoorofthechurchofmyvillagewasnailedthepawofabearthatIkilledinthespring,findinghimonahillsideinthesnow,overturningalogwiththissamepaw."

           "Whenwasthis?"

           "Sixyearsago.AndeverytimeIsawthatpaw,likethehandofaman,butwiththoselongclaws,driedandnailedthroughthepalmtothedoorofthechurch,Ireceivedapleasure."

           "Ofpride?"

           "Ofprideofremembranceoftheencounterwiththebearonthathillsideintheearlyspring.Butofthekillingofaman,whoisamanasweare,thereisnothinggoodthatremains."

           "Youcan’tnailhispawtothechurch,"RobertJordansaid.

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