Well! he had lived, had tasted to the
full the joys of the old earth, the kindly mother of her children. He
had faced death thoughtlessly many times, and now the Ancient Enemy was
on his heels and he was waiting to give him greeting. A phrase ran in
his head, some trophy from his aimless wanderings among books, which
spoke of death coming easily to one "who has walked steadfastly in the
direction of his dreams." It was a comforting thought to a creature of
moods and fancies. He had failed, doubtless, but he had ever kept some
select fanciful aim unforgotten. In all his weakness he had never
betrayed this ultimate Desire of the Heart.
Some few feet up the cliff was a little thicket of withered thorns. The
air was chilly and the cleft was growing very black. Why should not he
make a fire behind the great boulder? He gathered some armfuls and
heaped them in a space of dry sand. They were a little wet, so they
burned slowly with a great smoke, which the rising night wind blew
behind him. He was still hungry, so he ate the food he had brought in
his pockets; and then he lit his pipe. How oddly the tobacco tasted in
this moment of high excitement! It was as if the essence of all the
pipes he had ever smoked was concentrated into this last one. The smoke
blew back, and as he sniffed its old homely fragrance he seemed to feel
the smell of peat and heather, of drenched homespun in the snowy bogs,
and the glory of a bright wood fire and the moorland cottage.
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