'The labourer is worthy of his hire.' Well, my hire is under two hundred a year, and eight of us must live--or starve--on it.

And I have worked, ay, until my health is broken.

A labourer indeed! I am a very hodman, a spiritual Sisyphus.

And now I must go back to carry my load and roll my stone again and again among those hopeless savages till I die of it--till I die of it!" "At least it is a noble life and death!" exclaimed Owen, a sudden fire of enthusiasm burning in his dark eyes.
"Yes, viewed from a distance.

Were you asked to leave this living of two thousand a year--I see that is what they put it at in Crockford--with its English comforts and easy work, that _you_ might lead that life and attain that death, then you would think differently.