He watched his last day's sun dip down behind the wood,
While all his life's thoughts surged about his brain:
Memories and pictures clear, and faces known--
Long dead, perhaps; he was a child again,
Treading a threshold in the dark alone.
Then back the present surged, making him moan.
He asked if Keir had come yet. "No," they said.
"Nor Occleve?" "No." He moaned: "Come soon or I'll be dead."
The names like live things wandered in his mind:
"Charles Occleve of The Roughs," and "Rowland Keir--