Surely in the happenings of the bygone day there was more than the purposeless "Magic Shadow-show, Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun, Round which we Phantom Figures come and go." He had, indeed, cause to be humbly thankful.

Was there not One who marked the fall of a sparrow, who clothed the lilies, who knew the needs of His creatures?
There, in the solemn temple of the night, he gave thanks for the protection vouchsafed to Iris and himself, and prayed that it might be continued.

He deplored the useless bloodshed, the horror of mangled limbs and festering bodies, that converted this fair island into a reeking slaughter-house.

Were it possible, by any personal sacrifice, to divert the untutored savages from their deadly quest, he would gladly condone their misdeeds and endeavor to assuage the torments of the wounded.
But he was utterly helpless, a pawn on that tiny chessboard where the game was being played between Civilization and Barbarism.

The fight must go on to the bitter end: he must either vanquish or be vanquished.
There were other threads being woven into the garment of his life at that moment, but he knew not of them.