Miserable as he was on the steamer, a new misery came upon him.  What when the steamer reached Tahiti?  He would have to go ashore.  He would have to order his trade-goods, to find a passage on a schooner to the Marquesas, to do a thousand and one things that were awful to contemplate.  Whenever he steeled himself deliberately to think, he could see the desperate peril in which he stood.  In all truth, he was in the Valley of the Shadow, and his danger lay in that he was not afraid.  If he were only afraid, he would make toward life.  Being unafraid, he was drifting deeper into the shadow.  He found no delight in the old familiar things of life.  The Mariposa was now in the northeast trades, and this wine of wind, surging against him, irritated him.  He had his chair moved to escape the embrace of this lusty comrade of old days and nights.

The day the Mariposa entered the doldrums, Martin was more miserable than ever.  He could no longer sleep.  He was soaked with sleep, and perforce he must now stay awake and endure the white glare of life.  He moved about restlessly.  The air was sticky and humid, and the rain-squalls were unrefreshing.  He ached with life.  He walked around the deck until that hurt too much, then sat in his chair until he was compelled to walk again.  He forced himself at last to finish the magazine, and from the steamer library he culled several volumes of poetry.  But they could not hold him, and once more he took to walking.

He stayed late on deck, after dinner, but that did not help him, for when he went below, he could not sleep.  This surcease from life had failed him.  It was too much.  He turned on the electric light and tried to read.  One of the volumes was a Swinburne.  He lay in bed, glancing through its pages, until suddenly he became aware that he was reading with interest.  He finished the stanza, attempted to read on, then came back to it.  He rested the book face downward on his breast and fell to thinking.  That was it.  The very thing.  Strange that it had never come to him before.  That was the meaning of it all; he had been drifting that way all the time, and now Swinburne showed him that it was the happy way out.  He wanted rest, and here was rest awaiting him.  He glanced at the open port-hole.  Yes, it was large enough.  For the first time in weeks he felt happy.  At last he had discovered the cure of his ill.  He picked up the book and read the stanza slowly aloud:-

   “’From too much love of living,
   From hope and fear set free,
   We thank with brief thanksgiving
   Whatever gods may be
   That no life lives forever;
   That dead men rise up never;
   That even the weariest river
   Winds somewhere safe to sea.’”

He looked again at the open port.  Swinburne had furnished the key.  Life was ill, or, rather, it had become ill—­an unbearable thing.  “That dead men rise up never!” That line stirred him with a profound feeling of gratitude.  It was the one beneficent thing in the universe.  When life became an aching weariness, death was ready to soothe away to everlasting sleep.  But what was he waiting for?  It was time to go.