'Destiny knocking at the door,' he thought; drew a stave on the plaster, and wrote in the famous phrase from the Fifth Symphony.

'So,' thought he, 'they will know that I loved music and had classical tastes.

They?
He, I suppose: the unknown, kindred spirit that shall come some day and read my memor querela.

Ha, he shall have Latin too!' And he added: terque quaterque beati Queis ante ora patrum.
He turned again to his uneasy pacing, but now with an irrational and supporting sense of duty done.

He had dug his grave that morning; now he had carved his epitaph; the folds of the toga were composed, why should he delay the insignificant trifle that remained to do?
He paused and looked long in the face of the sleeping Huish, drinking disenchantment and distaste of life.