"I have sought," he said, "for long years I have laboured; but I have not
found her. I have not rested, I have not repined, and I have not seen her;
now my strength is gone. Where I lie down worn out other men will stand,
young and fresh. By the steps that I have cut they will climb; by the
stairs that I have built they will mount. They will never know the name of
the man who made them. At the clumsy work they will laugh; when the stones
roll they will curse me. But they will mount, and on my work; they will
climb, and by my stair! They will find her, and through me! And no man
liveth to himself and no man dieth to himself."

The tears rolled from beneath the shrivelled eyelids. If Truth had
appeared above him in the clouds now he could not have seen her, the mist
of death was in his eyes.

"My soul hears their glad step coming," he said; "and they shall mount!
they shall mount!" He raised his shrivelled hand to his eyes.

Then slowly from the white sky above, through the still air, came something
falling, falling, falling. Softly it fluttered down, and dropped on to the
breast of the dying man. He felt it with his hands. It was a feather. He
died holding it.



III. THE GARDENS OF PLEASURE.

She walked upon the beds, and the sweet rich scent arose; and she gathered
her hands full of flowers. Then Duty, with his white clear features, came
and looked at her. Then she ceased from gathering, but she walked away
among the flowers, smiling, and with her hands full.