have but a moment to live, why
do they persist in making it infernal by their atrocious and absurd
quarrels about ideas; like wretches who cut each other's throats for
a handful of spurious coins thrown to them? We are all victims, under
the same sentence, and instead of uniting, we fight among ourselves.
Poor fools! On the brow of each man that passes I can see the sweat of
agony; efface it by the kiss of peace!

As he thought this, a crowd of people rushed by--men and women,
shrieking with joy. "There's one of them down! One gone! The brutes
are burning up!"

And the birds of prey, in the air, rejoiced in their turn over every
handful of death that they scattered on the town, like gladiators
dying in the arena for the pleasure of some invisible Nero.

Alas, my poor fellow-prisoners!

PART FIVE

_They also serve who only stand and wait_.

MILTON.

Once more Clerambault found himself wrapt in solitude; but this time
she appeared to him as never before, calm and beautiful, kindness
shining from her face, with eyes full of affection and soft cool hands
which she laid on his fevered forehead. He knew that now she had
chosen him for her own.

It is not given to every man to be alone; many groan under it, but
with a secret pride. It is the complaint of the ages; and proves,
without those who complain being aware of it, that solitude has not
marked them for her own; that they are not her familiars. They have
passed the outer door, and are cooling their heels in the vestibule;
but they have not had patience to wait their turn to go in, or else
their recriminations have kept them at a distance.

No one can penetrate to the heart of friendly solitude unless they
have the gift of God's grace, or have gained the benefit of trials
bravely accepted. Outside the door you must leave the dust of the
road, the harsh voices and mean thoughts of the world, egotism,
vanity, miserable rebellions against disappointments in love or
ambition.--It must be that, like the pure Orphic shades whose golden
tablets have transmitted to us their dying voices, "_The soul flees
from the circle of pain_" and presents itself alone and bare "_to the
chill fountain which flows from the lake of Memory_."

This is the miracle of the resurrection; he who has cast off his
mortal coil and thinks that he has lost everything, finds that he is
only just entering on his true life. Not only are others as well as
himself restored to him,