It was strange that the dead nowadays were coming in such numbers. They were coming in thousands where they used to come in fifties. It was neither Charon's duty nor his wont to ponder in his grey soul why these things might be. Charon leaned forward and rowed. Then no one came for a while. It was not usual for the gods to send no one down from Earth for such a space. But the gods knew best. Then one man came alone. And the little shade sat shivering on a lonely bench and the great boat pushed off. Only one passenger: the gods knew best. And great and weary Charon rowed on and on beside the little, silent, shivering ghost. And the sound of the river was like a mighty sigh that Grief in the beginning had sighed among her sisters, and that could not die like the echoes of human sorrow failing on earthly hills, but was as old as time and the pain in Charon's arms. Then the boat from the slow, grey river loomed up to the coast of Dis and the little, silent shade still shivering stepped ashore, and Charon turned the boat to go wearily back to the world. Then the little shadow spoke, that had been a man. "I am the last," he said. No one had ever made Charon smile before, no one before had ever made him weep. THE DEATH OF PAN When the travellers from London entered Arcady they lamented one to another the death of Pan. And anon they saw him lying stiff and still. Horned Pan was still and the dew was on his fur; he had not the look of a live animal. And then they said, "It is true that Pan is dead." And, standing melancholy by that huge prone body, they looked for long at memorable Pan. And evening came and a small star appeared. And presently from a hamlet of some Arcadian valley, with a sound of idle song, Arcadian maidens came. And, when they saw there, suddenly in the twilight, that old recumbent god, they stopped in their running and whispered among themselves. "How silly he looks," they said, and thereat they laughed a little. And at the sound of their laughter Pan leaped up and the gravel flew from his hooves. And, for as long as the travellers stood and listened, the crags and the hill-tops of Arcady rang with the sounds of pursuit. THE SPHINX AT GIZEH I saw the other day the Sphinx's painted face. She had painted her face in order to ogle Time. And he has spared no other painted face in all the world but hers. Delilah was younger than she, and Delilah is dust. Time hath loved nothing but this worthless painted face. I do not care that she is ugly, nor that she has painted her face, so that she only lure his secret from Time. Time dallies like a fool at her feet when he should be smiting cities. Time never wearies of her silly smile. There are temples all about her that he has forgotten to spoil. I saw an old man go by, and Time never touched him. Time that has carried away the seven gates of Thebes! She has tried to bind him with ropes of eternal sand, she had hoped to oppress him with the Pyramids.