At first he asked himself how he should get away; then, with the failing belief in the power, the very desire to move gradually left him.

He had come, as he always came, to lose himself; the fields of light were still there to stray in; only this time, in straying, he would never come back.

He had given himself to his Dead, and it was good: this time his Dead would keep him.

He couldn't rise from his knees; he believed he should never rise again; all he could do was to lift his face and fix his eyes on his lights.

They looked unusually, strangely splendid, but the one that always drew him most had an unprecedented lustre.