He was sorry about the sunsets.

By the Blessed Bell of Clare, he was willing to be sorry about anything, little as he felt himself to blame.

Was he to blame?
Had he not paid for it all in his days of stormy penance?
Out of his white-hot revolt clear vision came to him, as it sometimes did, with incomprehensible, dart-like swiftness, and leveled him to the dust.

Some of it he would not face but he saw his days upon the road with truth and shame.

He had failed in his penance.