So the man in those days saw his dreams going from him--saw his bright
visions growing dim. So he came to feel that his young strength was of
no value; that his red blood was worthless; that his courage was vain.
So his confidence was shaken; his faith was weakened; his hope grew
faint. He came to feel that the things that he had dreamed were
already all wrought out--that there were no more great works to be
done--that all that could be done was being accomplished--that in all
the world there was nothing more for a man to do. Disappointed,
discouraged, disheartened, weary and alone, he told himself that he
had come too late--that in all the world there was nothing more for a
man to do.

He did not look out upon the world, now, as a conquering emperor,
confident in his armed strength, might look over the field of a coming
battle. He did not dream, now, of victories, of honors, and renown. He
did not, now, see himself a savior of the world. The world had
stretched this man also upon the cross that it has always ready for
such as he.

It was not the man's pressing need that hurt him so--gladly he would
have suffered for his dreams. It was not for privation and hardships
that he cared--proudly he would have endured those for his dreams. Nor
was it loneliness and neglect that made him afraid--he was willing to
work out his dreams alone. That which sent him cowering like a
wounded, wild thing to his room was this: he felt that his strength,
his courage, his willingness, his purpose, were as nothing in the
world. That which frightened him with dreadful fear was this: he felt
that his dreams were going from him. That for which he cared was this:
he felt that he was too late. This was the cross upon which the world