“A man can’t serve two passions.  You must give up this championing the weak and lighting flames you can’t control.  See what it leads to!  You’ve got to grow and become a man.  Until then I don’t trust my daughter to you.”

The boy’s lips quivered; a flush darkened his face, ebbed, and left him paler than ever.

Felix felt as if he had hit that face.  Still, anything was better than to leave him under this gruesome obsession!  Then, to his consternation, Derek stood up and said: 

“If I go and see his body at the prison, perhaps he’ll leave me alone a little!”

Catching at that, as he would have caught at anything, Felix said: 

“Good!  Yes!  Go and see the poor fellow; we’ll come, too.”

And he went out to find Nedda.

By the time they reached the street Derek had already started, and they could see him going along in front.  Felix racked his brains to decide whether he ought to prepare her for the state the boy was in.  Twice he screwed himself up to take the plunge, but her face—­ puzzled, as though wondering at her lover’s neglect of her—­stopped him.  Better say nothing!

Just as they reached the prison she put her hand on his arm: 

“Look, Dad!”

And Felix read on the corner of the prison lane those words:  ‘Love’s Walk’!

Derek was waiting at the door.  After some difficulty they were admitted and taken down the corridor where the prisoner on his knees had stared up at Nedda, past the courtyard where those others had been pacing out their living hieroglyphic, up steps to the hospital.  Here, in a white-washed room on a narrow bed, the body of the big laborer lay, wrapped in a sheet.

“We bury him Friday, poor chap!  Fine big man, too!” And at the warder’s words a shudder passed through Felix.  The frozen tranquillity of that body!

As the carved beauty of great buildings, so is the graven beauty of death, the unimaginable wonder of the abandoned thing lying so quiet, marvelling at its resemblance to what once lived!  How strange this thing, still stamped by all that it had felt, wanted, loved, and hated, by all its dumb, hard, commonplace existence!  This thing with the calm, pathetic look of one who asks of his own fled spirit:  Why have you abandoned me?

Death!  What more wonderful than a dead body—­that still perfect work of life, for which life has no longer use!  What more mysterious than this sight of what still is, yet is not!

Below the linen swathing the injured temples, those eyes were closed through which such yearning had looked forth.  From that face, where the hair had grown faster than if it had been alive, death’s majesty had planed away the aspect of brutality, removed the yearning, covering all with wistful acquiescence.  Was his departed soul coherent?  Where was it?  Did it hover in this room, visible still to the boy?  Did it stand there beside what was left of Tryst the laborer, that humblest of all creatures who dared to make revolt—­serf, descendant of serfs, who, since the beginning, had hewn wood, drawn water, and done the will of others?  Or was it winged, and calling in space to the souls of the oppressed?