Through all his life he had been but a great, strong, human carcass; and he was now but the same carcass worn out, and at death's door.

Of not one human thing but of himself had he ever thought, not one creature but himself had he ever loved--and now he lay at the end, harking back only to the wicked years gone by.
"None can bring them back," he shuddered.

"Not even thou, Clo, who art so strong.

None--none! Canst pray, Clo ?" with the gasp of a craven.
"Not as chaplains do," she answered.

"I believe not in a God who clamours but for praise." "What dost believe in, then ?" "In One who will do justice, and demands that it shall be done to each thing He has made, by each who bears His image--ay, and mercy too--but justice always, for justice is mercy's highest self." Who knows the mysteries of the human soul--who knows the workings of the human brain?
The God who is just alone.