“This is part of the mystery: if he were but the earth’s dust and ashes, like everything else, how could it be so? How could the earth which is without sin breed in his race so many sinners? How could the earth, since it speaks only the truth, have been the father of all his lies? How, without sorrow, could it have been the mother of his sorrows? The earth never felt joy; how could it have made him joy incarnate? What does the earth know of greatness yet it made him great. How could that be?” “It is part of the mystery.” “Had they realized how alone in the universe they were, would they not have turned to each other for happiness?” “Would not all have helped each?” “Would not each have helped all?” “The longest of their rivers was the river of their own blood.” “If they could have caught it in the basin of some empty sea, they could have floated on it all their fleets of battleships.” Once in the night they spoke together: “And all his gods, his many gods in many lands with many faces--they all sleep now in their ancient temples; it is at last the true twilight of the gods.” “They set shepherds over them. Then the shepherds declared themselves appointed by the Creator of the universe to lead other men as their sheep: now what difference is there between the sheep and the shepherds?” “The shepherds lie with the sheep in the same white pasture. They were all sheep: they had no shepherd.” “And their sins were the sins of sheep, but the sins of silly sheep.” “Still, what think you became of all that men did? How could all that perish? It was so solid, so enduring; it was so splendid; it seemed worthy to be immortal.” “What became of Science? How could all that Science was come to naught?” “And his Art--that inner light of himself which was Art? Do his pictures hang nowhere? Is his music never to be heard again?” “And the love that was in him--was it but a blind force rising into him as the power of the clouds?” “What became of the woman who threw herself away for love: did she find no one at last to weep at the feet of, no one who would free her soul from her body?” “What became of the man who was false: did he ever find a Power that could make him true?” “What became of the man who threw himself away in being true: did any Power ever make good to him his ruin?” “The young soldier who poured out his life’s blood for his country: was he never to have any country?” On the long road of the ages here and there they loitered with their thoughts: “But he did fill the world with a great light of himself, with the splendor of what he was.” “And yet it was but half his life, half his glory. He forever dwelt in less than half of the light of his race: the rest he himself put out yet never knew the darkness it left him in. More than half his light he put out in neglected childhood and in youth slain on the battlefield.”