“For a tree there is always hope. Even when felled it can put forth fresh shoots, and regain new verdure and new life. But man dies, and vanishes for ever. I lie down never to rise again. If I knew for certain that after milliards of years I should come to life again, patient and uncomplaining I would wait through all those centuries in outer darkness.” Once more he read from the book: “What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun? “One generation passeth away and another generation cometh, but the earth abideth for ever. “The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down and hasteth to his place where he arose. “The wind goeth toward the south and turneth about unto the north: it whirleth about continually; and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. “The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; there is nothing new under the sun. “There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after. “I, the Preacher, was King over Israel in Jerusalem.” “I, the Preacher, was King!” He shouted out these last words, as in vehement anger and despair, and then looked round in alarm, fearing lest some one should have heard him. Then he took a sheet of paper and began to write. “I here begin this document which will end with my decease.” “Bah! how absurd it sounds!” he exclaimed as he pushed the paper from him with such violence that it fell to the floor. “But that miserable little fellow, Soloveitchik, didn’t think it absurd that he could not understand the meaning of life!” Yourii failed to perceive that he was taking as his model a man whom he had described as a miserable little fellow. “Anyhow, sooner or later, my end will be like that. There is no other way out. Why is there not? Because…” Yourii paused. He believed that he had got an exact reply to this question, yet the words he wanted could not be found. His brain was over-wrought, and his thoughts confused. “It’s rubbish, all rubbish!” he exclaimed bitterly. The lamp burned low, and its faint light illumined Yourii’s bowed head, as he leant across the table. “Why didn’t I die when I was a boy and had inflammation of the lungs? I should now be happy, and at rest.” He shivered at the thought. “In that case I should not have seen or known all that now I know. That would have been just as dreadful.” Yourii tossed back his head, and rose. “It’s enough to drive one mad!” He went to the window and tried to open it, but the shutters were firmly fastened from the outside. By using a pencil, Yourii was able at last to unhook them, and with a creaking sound they swung back, admitting the cool, pure night air, Yourii looked up at the heavens and saw the roseate light of the dawn.