"Promise,"
he said, "that you will put this into my coffin with your own hand; and
that you will see that no other hand touches it afterwards."
I gave him my promise. And the promise has been performed.
He asked me to do one other thing for him--which it cost me a hard
struggle to comply with. He said, "Let my grave be forgotten. Give me
your word of honour that you will allow no monument of any sort--not
even the commonest tombstone--to mark the place of my burial. Let me
sleep, nameless. Let me rest, unknown." When I tried to plead with
him to alter his resolution, he became for the first, and only time,
violently agitated. I could not bear to see it; and I gave way. Nothing
but a little grass mound marks the place of his rest. In time, the
tombstones will rise round it. And the people who come after us will
look and wonder at the nameless grave.
As I have told you, for six hours before his death his sufferings
ceased. He dozed a little. I think he dreamed. Once or twice he smiled.
A woman's name, as I suppose--the name of "Ella"--was often on his lips
at this time. A few minutes before the end he asked me to lift him on
his pillow, to see the sun rise through the window.
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