ng of men
in cloth and men in blankets, the tramp of hurrying hoofs, the
falling of men who die--can you see this--can you catch the
horror, the exultation, the joy of this, I say? They come, they
go; they run their race, and it is all.

"Here are those who ride against those who slay. Do you know
this one who rides at the head, smiling, swinging his sword well
and smiling all the time? It is he who said in the mountains
that riddle of the end and the beginning--who knew that to the
heart of nature we must come, for either the end or the
beginning of this, our life. Do you see upon his breast the red
rose? I think he rides to battle with the rose, knowing what
fate will come.

"You know of this biting whistle in the air--this small thing
that smites unseen? Do you know the mowing of the death scythes?
Hark! I hear the singing of this unseen thing. See! he of the
rose is bitten. He has fallen. Ay! ay! He was so brave and
strong! His horse has gone. He is alone. The grass here was so
green. It is red. The rose upon his breast is red. His face is
white, but still the smile is there; and now it is calmer and
more sweet, though still he whispers, 'I know not if it be the
end or the beginning!'

"He is alone with Nature again. The heavens weep for him. The
grasses and leaves begin with busy fingers to cover him up. The
earth pillows him. He sleeps. It is all. It is done. It is the
way of life. It is the end and the beginning.

[Illustration]

"He loved the valley, the mountain, the grass, the rose. Now,
since he cherished the rose so well, see, the rose will not
leave him. Out of the dust it rises, it grows, it blooms.
Against his lips it presses. It is the beginning! He loved, he
thought, he knew. He is not dead He is with Nature. It is but
the beginning!

"Let the rose press against his lips in an eternal, pure caress.
There is no end. They understand. We do not yet understand."

The pink flame of the unreal light died away. The pageant of the
hills, the panorama of the battle, faded and were gone. The
table and the books came back. Wondering at these words,
I scarce could tell when the Singing Mouse went away, leaving me
staring at the barren walls and at the white skull by my hand.
... For a moment it nearly seemed to me the hollow eyes had
light and spoke to me. For a moment almost it seemed to me that
the rose stirred deep down among its petals, and that a wider
perfume floated out upon the air.

[Illus