Ever writing as before, the returned wayfarer had now a face that was radiant with joy. As he continued to fill one page upon another, his lips began to move in a kind of low crooning chant. When the watcher from the threshold caught the first sounds of his voice, he remembered with one of those pangs with which reason confronts that which lies beyond it, the day upon which he and his boon companions had taken him upon the sea in a boat. “I don’t know how it will end, I don’t know how it will end!” cried the man as he entered the streets. His emotion was wrought so highly that he walked the streets until dawn. Yet again on the evening of the fifth day he returned, and with secret, fearful steps he came to the threshold of the little room. He who sat there was writing still. His cheeks had now sunk into his jaws; his eyes that formerly were so large and bright lacked lustre; the slender fingers were moving painfully; the gaunt face had almost the composure of death. The watcher crept forth again to the streets, and walked them in a kind of madness. “I begin to wish he would die,” he said as he took his way. “It is dreadful, it is dreadful! Yes, I wish he would die.” Yet on the evening of the sixth day the man came again and knocked upon the shutter. “I hope he is dead,” he said bitterly as the old man confronted him. “It is dreadful, it is dreadful!” “He sleeps now,” said the old man simply. “Is it not wonderful that the strength should have been given to him to complete his task? But he now sleeps.” They stole together to the threshold, where this superhuman labourer, bare-footed and unkempt, and in his rags lay fast asleep. His face was buried amid the great bulk of his writings. “Oh,” said the man from the street with a harsh sob; “he is dead at last.” “Oh, no,” said the old man, “he breathes softly.” “Can it be possible?” said the other. “Can he have done all this and yet remained alive? I must see for myself before I can believe it.” The man from the street made as if he would cross the threshold of the little room. “Beware,” said the old man almost sternly. “Did you not promise that you would not go beyond this?” “Yes, I did,” said the other mournfully, “but I am sure he is dead.” “Return to-morrow, my friend, at the same hour,” said the old man, “and be of good hope. He ate and drank before he slept and he promised to awaken.” The next day the man came back again to the threshold of the little room, but the writer still slept with his face buried within his labours. “He will never awaken, he will never awaken!” said the watcher. “Be of good faith,” said the old man softly. “Return to-morrow again.” The man did as he was bidden, but he who had laboured was still asleep. “Why do you deceive me?” cried the man from the street, almost beside himself with his passion; “you know he will never wake again. And you dare not tell me the truth. I will enter and see for myself.”