“If I should be sick,” he said, “I should either get well again, or else die.” “Then you do not feel pain?” “To learn to bear pain has been one of my tasks,” was the response. “I should think,” he continued, changing the subject abruptly, “that if you had studied all your life as you did when we lived together, by this time you would not fear solitude—that you would find in this new world enough to fill all your time.” “I might—perhaps I shall,” I said; “but, Daniel, you have been here twenty years, and never seen a ship! So how could I know that the result of any studies of mine would ever be made known to the world? I have not even any paper to write upon.” The other sat gazing ahead of him at the moonlit water through the trees; I saw the strange smile upon the lips again. “All that sorrow,” he said—“I fought with it once myself, and how I wish that I could help you to fight with it! For a year or so I also waited for a ship, and wrote down the best of my music, and poured out the tears of my soul. But, Edward, I no longer write my music, and I no longer fear lest my work be not made known to the world.” His voice had sunk low. Over the tree-tops a silver moon was gleaming, and his eyes were fixed upon it. “On that huge ball of iron and rock,” said he, “there was once power and life and beauty; and now it rolls there through the years and the ages, cold and dead and still. And some day this planet, too, will roll through the years and the ages; and no eye will behold it, and no mind will be aware of it; and the voices of men will be hushed upon it, and the monuments of men will be dust upon it; and Edward, what then of my music, what then of your science and your books?” I answered nothing. “Perhaps in all the ages that have gone over this island,” he continued, “no human foot ever trod upon it before.” And so my brother passed on, pressing his hand upon my shoulder; and through the watches of the night I saw him pacing backward and forward, backward and forward, upon the long, white stretch of sand. A month must have passed after that—I took little heed of the time. I toiled at the cave, I played hunter and naturalist. I was busy with my hands, but very seldom was I happy or at peace. For day after day that silent figure roamed here and there before my eyes, and hour after hour those strange, silent vigils to the black cavern continued. I grew more and more restless and oppressed, until at last, one night, at the end of a long and exhausting vigil, my impatience reached its climax. I remember how I sat by his side and caught his hand, like a supplicating child. “Daniel,” I asked, “has it never occurred to you that you are unkind to me?” “Unkind?” he asked gently. “Unkind,” I said, “I have waited—how long have I waited. It seemed to me that it could not last for ever—that you would not continue to treat me always as if I were a child.” “Edward,” he said, “I know what you are going to say. I wish that you would spare me.”