ed his last
moments of relaxation and repose in careful draughts, each draught a
pure joy that would never return. In the woods a stillness reigned as of
death, as though the earth were uninhabited; the melancholy of things
that are coming to an end hung about the trees.

Suddenly Othomar took Herman's hand and pressed it:

"Thank you," he said.

"What for?" asked Herman.

"For the pleasure we have had together. Mamma was right: I did not know
you, Herman...."

"Nor I you, dear fellow."

"It has been a pleasant time. How delightfully we travelled together,
like two tourists! How grand and glorious India was, don't you think?
And Japan, how curious! I never cared much for hunting; but, when I was
with you, I understood it and felt the excitement of it: I shall never
forget our tiger-hunt! The eyes of the brute, the danger facing you:
it's invigorating. At a moment like that, you feel yourself becoming
primitive, like the first man. The look of one of those tigers drives
away a lot of your hesitation. That's another danger, which mamma is
always so afraid of: oh, how enervating it is; it eats up all your
energy!... And the nights on the Indian Ocean, on board our _Viking_.
That great wide circle around you, all those stars over your head. How
often we sat looking at them, with our legs on the bulwarks!... Perhaps
it's a mistake to sit dreaming so long, but it rests one so, it rests
one so! I shall never forget it, never...."

"Well, old chap, we must do it again."

"No, one never does anything again. What's done is done. Nothing
returns, not a single moment of our lives. Later on it is always
different...."

He looked round about him, as though some one might be listening; then
he whispered:

"Herman, I have something to tell you."

"What is it?"

"Something to confide to you. But first tell me: that time with the
tiger, you didn't think me a great coward, did you?"

"No, certainly not!"

"Well, I'm a coward for all that. I'm frightened, always frightened. The
doctors don't know it, because I never tell them. But I always am...."

"But of what, my dear chap?"

"Of something inside myself. Look here, Herman, I'm so afraid ... that I
shall not be able to stick it out. That at a given moment of my life I
shall be too weak. That suddenly I shall not be able to act and then,
then ..."

He shuddered; they look at each other.

"It won't do," he continued, mechanically, as though strengthened by
Herman's