e stone floor beneath was cold--so cold!
He was going to some gruesome death, and monks with voices like his own
voice were intoning: "Abandoned and alone. Alone--alone--abandoned and
alone."... And now he was fighting, fighting on board the Araminta.
There was the roar of the great guns, the screaming of the carronade
slides, the rattle of musketry, the groans of the dying, the shouts of
his victorious sailors, the crash of the main-mast as it fell upon
the bulwarks. Then the swift sissing ripple of water, the thud of the
Araminta as she struck, and the cold chill of the seas as she went down.
How cold was the sea--ah, how it chilled every nerve and tissue of his
body!

He roused to consciousness again. Here was still the blank cheerless
room, the empty house, the lamplight flaring through the window upon his
stricken face, upon the dark walls, upon the white paper lying on the
table beside him.

Paper--that was it--he must write, he must write while he had strength.
With the last courageous effort of life, his strenuous will forcing the
declining powers into obedience for a final combat, he drew the paper
near, and began to write. The light flickered, wavered, he could just
see the letters that he formed--no more.

Guida [he began], on the Ecrehos I said to you: "If I deceive you
may I die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone!" It
has all come true. You were right, always right, and I was always
wrong. I never started fair with myself or with the world. I was
always in too great a hurry; I was too ambitious, Guida. Ambition
has killed me, and it has killed her--the Comtesse. She is gone.
What was it he said--if I could but remember what Grandjon-Larisse
said--ah yes, yes!--after he had given me my death-wound, he said:
"It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride." There is
the truth. She is in her grave, and I am going out into the dark.

He lay back exhausted for a moment, in desperate estate. The body was
fighting hard that the spirit might confess itself before the vital
spark died down for ever. Seizing a glass of cordial near, he drank of
it. The broken figure in its mortal defeat roused itself again, leaned
over the paper, and a shaking hand traced on the brief piteous record of
a life.

I climbed too fast. Things dazzled me. I thought too much of
myself--myself, myself was everything always; and myself has killed
me. In wanton haste I came t