Stumbling along the levee of his buried hopes, by the peaceful chained river of his dedication, it came to him, the Ultimate, the end of it all. Until then death had been kept in its decent background. The one incontrovertible fact of the universe stared him now in the face. Heretofore, his struggle had been set to the tune of life; now, the rest of the way, he was facing death. For what is death but the failure to live? That was where he, Hardin, had failed. He touched at a thought of brotherhood, the realization dim. Death had come to Eduardo swiftly; but others it follows, cloaking its face, slowly stalking its victim down! Now he knew what would be his companion the rest of the way!
Brandon, walking out a philosophic, bloodless vigil, came upon the distorted, reeling fugitive. The starlight showed the face tortured. No safety for that staggering derelict without a pilot! He grabbed Hardin by the arm, and with gentle force, directed his steps. He talked of himself, his voice tuned to the stillness of the night.
“I like to walk before I turn in. I go to sleep quicker. I have no dreams then. ‘No dreams, dear God, no dreams.’ That is the mile-post of age, I think. We cling to our dreams in our youth. When we begin to grow old, we pray for sleep, which is the beginning of the prayer for death. It is our preparation for the long sleep.” He would not see the scowl that disfigured Hardin’s features.
“I often think of that blessing of ours. Wondering if men could endure what they like to call their supreme blessing, life, if we were not able to sleep away half of it. We die half of our life, eagerly, that we may live the other half. Strange, that!”
Hardin thought that he was too full of pain, of intolerance to listen, but the calm voice reached his fleeing thoughts. The final sleep, release? Sharply, he looked at Brandon’s straight clean profile, ascetic in its intellectual purity, sweet as a woman’s. What had his life been? Brandon kept on with his quiet reflection, but Hardin was wandering afield. His thoughts were growing centrifugal, sympathetic. Brandon, too, had failed!
He found that his companion had been talking about the river’s capture. He caught a phrase now and again, but his thoughts hovered over his own hurt as vultures over a dying body.
“That was a great battle,” Brandon was saying. “And this the sort of field on which our future battles will be fought. It’s modern warfare. In a few years the names of those generals will be forgotten. We call ourselves civilized, yet we put up statues to a man who bombards and burns a town of savages. We’ll learn to do things differently. We’ll learn our real values. When the world begins to crowd up, we’ll find the value of these waste places. And we’ll give titles to men like the older Estrada.” Hardin was thrown against another wrong. He forgot that Brandon was droning. Suddenly, a personal note was sounded. He woke to hear Brandon’s conclusion:
“You think you will, but you won’t. You won’t do anything to him. You won’t want to.”
Hardin stood still. He stared at Brandon. What was he talking about? It sounded like necromancy. He had said nothing of Godfrey.
“You won’t harm him.” Brandon linked his arm through the withdrawn one of Hardin and pressed him into step.