He closed his eyes then, and we thought slept. But when the ships had gone by, Peter Sprot touched my arm and pointed to him. He was already dead. We bore him down through the golden sunlight, strangely troubled, but I think, too, filled with the thought of the majesty of such a dying. And I was glad his end was upon the hills, rather than in the valley; for life is ever an ascending, or should be, and to its consummation reacheth with face upturned toward the vehicle of light. THE END.