On the second of November, Myself awakes “from a dream,” and Grizzlebeard tells him solemnly that it is the day of parting. The Four Men walk slowly and silently through the mists until they take “that lane northward which turns through Redlands and up to the hill of Elstead and its inn.”[3] Then they break bread together for the last time in the communion of friendship, and the Three, led by Grizzlebeard, part company from Myself, who until the very end protests and urges yet another day of comradeship. Grizzlebeard replies: “There is nothing at all that remains: nor any house; nor any castle, however strong; nor any love, however tender and sound; nor any comradeship among men, however hardy. Nothing remains but the things of which I will not speak, because we have spoken enough of them already during these four days. But I who am old will give you advice, which is this—to consider chiefly from now onward those permanent things which are, as it were, the shores of this age and the harbours of our glittering and pleasant but dangerous and wholly changeful sea.” When he said this (by which he meant Death), the other two, looking sadly at me, stood silent also for about the time in which a man can say good-by with reverence. Then they all turned about and went rapidly and with a purpose up the village street. I watched them, straining my sad eyes; but in a moment the mist received them and they had disappeared.[4] Myself hurries on “into the loneliness of the high Downs that are my brothers and my repose.”[5] Alone, somewhat shaken and bitter in his dereliction, he passes quickly over the burial mounds of the old kings of Sussex. I ... felt the full culmination of all the twenty tides of mutability which had thus run together to make a skerry of my soul. I saw and apprehended, as a man sees or touches a physical thing, that nothing of our sort remains, and that even before my county should cease to be itself I should have left it. I recognized that I was (and I confessed) in that attitude of the mind wherein men admit mortality; something had already passed from me—I mean that fresh and vigorous morning of the eyes wherein the beauty of this land had been reflected as a tiny mirror of burnished silver. Youth was gone out apart; it was loved and regretted and no longer possessed. Then, as I walked through this wood more slowly, pushing before me great billows of dead leaves, as the bows of a ship push the dark waters before them, this side and that, when the wind blows full on the middle of the sail and the water answers loudly as the ship sails on, so I went till suddenly I remembered with the pang that catches men at the clang of bells what this time was in November; it was the Day of the Dead.[6]