Old age was pressing inexorably upon him, palsying his hands on its rack, tripping his feet in its helpless mazes.

His dimmed eyes could see only ruin coming, coming slowly and steadily toward him.

In the panic, it came suddenly and inspired fight in him.

But this year there was something diabolical in its resistless approach.
So he shrank from his impending fate as a child trembles at some unknown terror.

But Barclay did not swerve.