irt, pieces of slate,
and great lumps of coal on' which he cut his hands and bruised his
knees. But he met and passed them all. He was intent only on getting
away from these dreadful powers of darkness, they tortured him so.

And he did get away from them. He came to a place where the space
about him seemed large, where the floor was smooth, and the air so
clear and pure that he could breathe it freely.

Utter darkness, indeed, surrounded him, but it was a darkness not
peopled with evil beings; it was more like the sweet darkness of a
summer night, with the fragrance of dew-wet flowers in the air.

He leaned against a pillar to rest. He thought to stay here until the
end should come.

He was not suffering from any pain now; he was glad of that. And he
should die peacefully, leaving no wrong behind him, with no guilt
upon his conscience, no sin upon his soul. He was glad of that too.
He wondered if they would know, when they found his body, that he was
Robert Burnham's son. Suppose they should never find it out. Suppose
the days and months and years should pass away, and no one ever know
what high honor came to him while yet he lived on earth. That would be
sad, very, very sad; worse even than death itself. But there was a way
for him to make it known. He thought that some sweet voice was telling
him what to do.

He took from his waistcoat pocket the paper that declared his birth,
unfolded it once, pressed it to his lips once, took pins from the edge
of the collar of his vest, and pinned the letter fast upon the bosom
of his flannel shirt.

It took him a long time to do this in the darkness, his hands were so
very weak and tremulous, but, when it was done, he smoothed the paper
over carefully and was content.

"They'll know it now," he said gently to himself, "they'll surely know
it now. They'll no sooner find me here than they'll know who I am, an'
who my mother is, an' where to take me. It's just the same, just the
same as though I was alive myself to tell 'em."

He leaned back then, and closed his eyes and lay quite still. He felt
no pain from his cut and bleeding hands and knees, nor from his burned
wrist, nor from his bruised body. He was not hungry any more, nor
thirsty, nor suffering for breath. He was thinking, but he thought
only of pleasant things. He remembered no evil, neither any person who
had done him evil.

Off somewhere in the distance he could see blue sky, and the tips of
waves glancing in