From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence and famine; from battle and murder and sudden death;—Good Lord, deliver us!
He had prayed it many times, meaninglessly. But he clung to it now, clung to it desperately. As a drowning man. He put his hand over his eyes, his pain was forgotten:
Other lights are paling—which for long years we have rejoiced to see...we would not mourn them for we go to Thee!
Yes it was all right; he was ready now. He had come of a race of men who feared not death in whatever form it came.
Bring us to our resting beds at night—weary and content and undishonoured—and grant us in the end the gift of sleep.
He repeated the prayer to himself slowly. That was it, weary and content, and undishonoured.
"Pearl," he said, reaching out his burning hand until it rested on hers, "all my letters are there in that black portmanteau, and the key is in my pocket-book. I have a fancy that I would like no eye but yours to see them—until I am quite well again."
She nodded.
"And if you...should have need...to write to Thursa, tell her I had loving hands around me...at the last."
Pearl gently stroked his hand.