"I have shot once or twice at a target to please my uncle Jervas, but never succeeded in hitting it that I remember." "Oh, damnation!" "That is what my uncle Jervas said, I remember." "But then--why how--oh, man!" stammered Anthony, viewing me in wide-eyed dismay, "how in the fiend's name d' you expect to hit your man?" "I don't know, Anthony--except, as I say, across a table or a handkerchief. But what matter? After all, perhaps it is--yes--just as well--" "Why, then 't will be rank murder! Ha, by heaven, Perry, you--you mean to let the fellow murder you--is this it?" "I mean to shoot as straight as I can." "It will be murder!" he cried wildly, and then tossing up his long arms in a helpless, distracted manner, he cried, "By God, Perry, you are as good as dead already!" "Why, then," said I, grasping him by the arm, "listen to the voice of a dying man and one who has never accomplished anything as yet--indeed, I have been a failure all my life--" "You, Perry? A failure--how, man, how?" "Well, I yearned to be a poet--and failed. I tried to be a painter--and failed again. I endeavoured to become a man and have achieved nothing. I am a sentient futility! But to-night--ah, to-night kind fortune sent me--you. And you were drunk again!" "I'm sober enough now, b'gad!" "Drunkenness, Anthony, as you know, is the refuge for cowards and weaklings, and all unworthy such a man as Anthony Vere-Manville--" "Egad, will you preach at me, Perry?" "Call it so if you will, but to-night is something of an occasion and here is a setting excellently adapted to the sermon of a dying man." And indeed it was a night to wonder at, very still and silent and filled with the splendour of a great moon whose peaceful radiance fell upon the sleeping countryside like a benediction. "Look," said I, "look round you, Anthony, upon this wonder of earth and heaven! Does it not wake in you some consciousness of divinity, some assured hope that we in our nobler selves are one with the Infinite Good?" "Why, to be sure, now you mention it," he answered easily, glancing from me to the radiant heaven and back again, "it is a very glorious night!" "Yes!" said I. "'In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand upon the wide sea banks and wafted her love to come again to Carthage!'" "Eh?" exclaimed Anthony, peering at me anxiously. "'In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs,'--and in such a night your friend, who may never see another--takes occasion to ask a promise of you." "What is it, Perry?" "That henceforth you will be drunk no more. Give me your word for this, Anthony, and come what will, I shall not have lived in vain." "Why, Peregrine," he mumbled, "dear fellow--not quite yourself--very natural--quite understand--" "On the contrary, I have never been so truly myself as now, Anthony. Grant me this and--if death find me to-morrow morning, I shall indeed have accomplished something worthy at last. So, Anthony--promise me!"