molecules; and this was confirmed by a most filthy hu-
miliation of that part of him that was rejected.  
I shall not attempt to describe the final process; suf-
fice it that the demoniac consciousness drew away; he 
was but the excrement of the demon, and as that ex-
crement he was flung filthily further into the abyss of 
blackness and of night whose name is death.  
I rose with ashen cheeks. I stammered: “He is 
dead.” The male nurse bent over the body. “Yes!” he 
echoed, “he is dead.” And it seemed as if the whole Uni-
verse gathered itself into one ghastly laugh of hate and 
horror, “Dead!”  
 
 
V 
 
I resumed my seat. I felt that I must know that all 
was well, that death had ended all. Woe to humanity! 
The consciousness of Arthur was more alive than ever. 
It was the black fear of falling, a dumb ecstasy of 
changeless fear. There were no waves upon that sea of 
shame, no troubling of those accursed waters by any 
thought. There was no hope of any ground to that 
abyss, no thought that it might stop. So tireless was that 
fall that even acceleration was absent; it was constant 
and level as the fall of a star. There was not even a feel-
ing of pace; infinitely fast as it must be, judging from 
the peculiar dread which it inspired, it was yet infinitely 
slow, having regard to the infinitude of the abyss.  
I took measures not to be disturbed by the duties 
that men—oh how foolishly!—pay to the dead: and I 
took refuge in a cigarette.  
It was now for the first time, strangely enough, that 
I began to consider the possibility of helping him.  
I analysed the position. It must be his thought, or I 
could not read it. I had no reason to conjecture that any 
other thoughts could reach me. He must be alive in the 
true sense of the word; it was he and not another that