Myself, my home, my hours; the past, and the future,--it was going to be like the past! And at that moment I feel, weeping within me and dragging itself from some little bygone trifle, a new and tragical sorrow in dying, a hunger to be warm once more in the rain and the cold: to enclose myself in myself in spite of space, to hold myself back, to live.

I called for help, and then lay panting, watching the distance in desperate expectation.

"Stretcher-bearers!" I cry.

I do not hear myself; but if only the others heard me! Now that I have made that effort, I can do no more, and my head lies there at the entrance to that world-great wound.
There is nothing now.
Yet there is that man.

He was laid out like one dead.