s
From this world-wearied flesh."
--_Romeo and Juliet_.

It is curious and humiliating, how Nature does not vex herself in the
least for the dying of a man. And yet, to the man, the event is so very
important! Each breath of spaceless night, each twinkle from the
firmament, though but the phantom of a ray quenched ages before,
everything, he teases into anxious commentary on his own puny end. There
could not be more ado if the Universe were in the throes, writhing
against a reconquering Chaos. Harassed creature, what ails him is only
the pathetic fallacy, which is a soothing melody and stimulating to
mortal pride. But the lapses into healthier realization are very, very
hard to bear.

How cold it was, when Maximilian awoke! The chill seemed creeping nearer
his heart, nearer the citadel. And how black the night, before the dawn!
But where, now, were his matches? He had the same monotonous trouble of
any other morning in getting one to light. Then the two candles guttered
fitfully, sordidly, just as they had always done. The white cloths of
the last communion seemed a ghostly intrusion on what was of every day.
Maximilian drew his cloak about him. The chill was simply of the
plateau, of the night, not the portent of death. The world without was
dark and desolate, but that had no reference to the tomb. The world was
merely taking its normal sleep. The heavy cloak ought to answer--but, it
did not.

He took up the snuffers, coaxing the yellow flames to brighter promise,
then set the candles before him on the table. A piece of dripping tallow
fell upon his hand, and the hand jerked back. The man pondered. So, even
his flesh was part of Nature too, and heeded trivial pain, with no
thought of the bullets to drive through it shortly.

He wrote two or three letters yet remaining, to friends, to his brother,
the Emperor of Austria. He penned words of farewell, yet even as the
tears welled in his eyes, he needed to stop and make sure that he had
indeed not more than three hours yet to live. It was difficult, though,
with the candles spluttering there, in the ordinary, every-day fashion.
He signed the last letter, to his mother. He gazed at the signature, of
characters squarely formed. He might have written it yesterday, or the
year before. It looked the same. But the pen he had just dropped had
dropped forever. No, no, that should not be! And he snatched it up
again, and wrote, scribbled, covered pap