thought makes death easier. I was never worthy of you, never. I
understand myself now, and I know that you have read me all these
years, read me through and through. The letter you wrote me, never
a day or night has passed but, one way or another, it has come home
to me.

There was a footfall outside his window. A roysterer went by in the
light of the flaring lamp. He was singing a ribald song. A dog ran
barking at his heels. The reveller turned, drew his sword, and ran the
dog through, then staggered on with his song. Philip shuddered, and with
a supreme effort bent to the table again, and wrote on.

You were right: you were my star, and I was so blind with
selfishness and vanity I could not see. I am speaking the truth to
you now, Guida. I believe I might have been a great man if I had
thought less of myself and more of others, more of you. Greatness,
I was mad for that, and my madness has brought me to this desolate
end--alone. Go tell Maitresse Aimable that she too was a good
prophet. Tell her that, as she foresaw, I called your name in
death, and you did not come. One thing before all: teach your boy
never to try to be great, but always to live well and to be just.
Teach him too that the world means better by him than he thinks, and
that he must never treat it as his foe; he must not try to force its
benefits and rewards. He must not approach it like the highwayman.
Tell him never to flatter. That is the worst fault in a gentleman,
for flattery makes false friends and the flatterer himself false.
Tell him that good address is for ease and courtesy of life, but it
must not be used to one's secret advantage as I have used mine to
mortal undoing. If ever Guilbert be in great temptation, tell him
his father's story, and read him these words to you, written, as you