The run of his thoughts checked itself abruptly. He looked out on the peaceful night with a sense of reverence and humility not usual to his nature. As in a magic mirror he saw his past life lying behind him,—a bare road tramped in the dusty pursuit of fame—fame the foolish, fame the variable, fame the most unsatisfying of earthly rewards, bringing in its train the vulgar inquisitiveness of mobs, the censoriousness of the envious and the detraction of rivals, inasmuch as even the greatest of men, like Shakespeare, are remembered chiefly to be calumniated,—and anon, he gazed forward into the future which for him meant nothing but increasing loneliness and gradual sinking away from life and its brighter pleasures; then he lifted up his eyes to the lovely heavens and saw one bright star shining in the trail of the moon.
“Is it the tender star of love
The star of love and dreams?
Oh, no! From that blue tent above
A hero’s armour gleams!”
A brief sigh escaped.
“I’m no hero!” he said. “But old as I am, I’m glad I’m man enough to be capable of a great love!—and—a great sacrifice!”
THE END
