Driven to bay by his realization of the futility of resistance to the powers of evil, he had fought desperately and hopelessly with a sword of integrity in whose temper he had no confidence, mocking a show of battle which he knew could mean only defeat. Knowing the enemy to be irresistible, he had encouraged others by heartening cries to follow him upon a quest at once aimless and futile.
All in him was a sham; he had never spoken a consciously true word. Upon the wretched world about him he had showered a flood of reassuring thoughts, of inspiriting phrases, of resolute aspirations ... and all with the sinking heart of one who speaks of a cheerful to-morrow to a man lying at the point of death.
A web of falsehood ... all his much-praised life.
And now he was come to the end of it. He was an imposter, through and through. The very face which lay on the pillow was not his, since it was calm from along habit of hiding his base and real passions, hardened into a mask of mock courage above his fainting heart and weak, despairing soul.
A deathlike chill crept upon him. This was the beginning of dissolution, he thought. Soon the mask would be torn from him, and his true face of agonized doubt disclosed. In the unsparing mirror which death was about to hold before him he would at last see
