Who shall blame him, if, so standing for a mo-ment, he dwells upon fame, upon search parties,upon cairns raised by grateful followers over hisbones? Finally, who shall blame the leader of thedoomed expedition, if, having adventured to theuttermost, and used his strength wholly to the lastounce and fallen asleep not much caring if he wakesor not, he now perceives by some pricking in histoes that he lives, and does not on the whole objectto live, but requires sympathy, and whisky, andsome one to tell the story of his suffering to atonce? Who shall blame him? Who will not secretlyrejoice when the hero puts his armour off, andhalts by the window and gazes at his wife and son,who, very distant at first, gradually come closer andcloser, till lips and book and head are clearly beforehim, though still lovely and unfamiliar from theintensity of his isolation and the waste of ages andthe perishing of the stars, and finally putting hispipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent headbefore her—who will blame him if he does homageto the beauty of the world?VII

But his son hated him. He hated him for comingup to them, for stopping and looking down on them;57
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