Now the end was come—so soon.
Well, well, he had often died before. And how clearly it all came back to him, this final stage in the little pilgrimage, these last few steps, solemn, beautiful, and slow, up to the familiar threshold; then the old door, the old smile, and—the old forgetfulness.
He had no regrets, and was strangely calm, strangely uplifted. He could look back without shame, and forward without fear. Now he was thankful that in these days of his ordeal he had been true to himself and to his trust. He had done his best. There was little more to do. That little should be done as became the son of his father.
IV
In the gloom they knelt before this unanointed Priest of Jehovah.
His office sat upon that white old man, native to him as his soul.
He spread his great-knuckled hands above them, a patriarch, a prophet, an apostle of Jesus Christ by the will of God.
"God bless you, sir—and you, Master Kit—and you, Boy Hoad." He drew his hand across his mouth.
"So be. Amen," he added solemnly.
"Amen," said they all.