crossed himself faintly once or
twice, made a response or two. Then he said: "I beg your pardon--one
moment--my love to them all." The big room was brightly lit; something
on the hearth boiled over, and the nurse went across the room. Hugh said
to me: "You will make certain I am dead, won't you?" I said "Yes," and
then the prayers went on. Suddenly he said to the nurse: "Nurse, is it
any good my resisting death--making any effort?" The nurse said: "No,
Monsignor; just be as quiet as you can." He closed his eyes at this, and
his breath came quicker. Presently he opened his eyes again and looked
at me, and said in a low voice: "Arthur, don't look at me! Nurse, stand
between my brother and me!" He moved his hand to indicate where she
should stand. I knew well what was in his mind; we had talked not long
before of the shock of certain sights, and how a dreadful experience
could pierce through the reason and wound the inner spirit; and I knew
that he wished to spare me the pain of seeing him die. Once or twice he
drew up his hands as though trying to draw breath, and sighed a little;
but there was no struggle or apparent pain. He spoke once more and said:
"I commit my soul to God, to Mary, and to Joseph." The nurse had her
hand upon his pulse, and presently laid his hand down, saying: "It is
all over." He looked very pale and boyish then, with wide open eyes and
parted lips. I kissed his hand, which was warm and firm, and went out
with Canon Sharrock, who said to me: "It was wonderful! I have seen many
people die, but no one ever so easily and quickly."

It was wonderful indeed! It seemed to me then, in that moment, strange
rather than sad. He had been _himself_ to the very end, no diminution of
vigour, no yielding, no humiliation, with all his old courtesy and
thoughtfulness and collectedness, and at the same time, I felt, with a
real adventurousness--that is the only word I can use. I recognised that
we were only the spectators, and that he was in command of the scene. He
had made haste to die, and he had gone, as he was always used to do,
straight from one finished task to another that waited for him. It was
not like an end; it was as though he had turned a corner, and was
passing on, out of sight but still unquestionably there. It seemed to me
like the death of a soldier or a knight, in its calmness of courage, its
splendid facing of the last extremity, its magnificent determination to
experience, open-eyed and vigilant,