THE WINDOWraised by grateful followers over his bones? Finally,who shall blame the leader of the doomed expedition,if, having adventured to the uttermost, and used hisstrength wholly to the last ounce and fallen asleep notmuch caring if he wakes or not, he now perceives bysome pricking in his toes that he lives, and does noton the whole object to live, but requires sympathy, andsomeone to tell the story of his suffering to at once?Who shall blame him? Who will not secretly rejoicewhen the hero puts his armour off, and halts by thewindow and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distantat first, gradually come closer and closer, till lips andbook and head are clearly before him, though still love-ly and unfamiliar from the intensity of his isolationand the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars,and finally putting his pipe in his pocket and bendinghis magnificent head before her — who will blamehim if he does homage to the beauty of the world?7

But his son hated him. He hated him for coming upto them, for stopping and looking down on them; hehated him for interrupting them; he hated him for theexaltation and sublimity of his gestures; for the magni-ficence of his head; for his exactingness and egotism(for there he stood, commanding them to attend tohim); but most of all he hated the twang and twitterof his father’s emotion which, vibrating round them,disturbed the perfect simplicity and good sense of hisrelations with his mother. By looking fixedly at thepage, he hoped to make him move on; by pointing hisfinger at a word, he hoped to recall his mother’s atten-45
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