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THE WINDOW 41behind him, ‘One perhaps.’ One in a generation.Is he to be blamed then if he is not that one? pro-vided he has toiled honestly, given to the best of hispower, till he has no more left to give? And hisfame lasts how long? It is permissible even for adying hero to think before he dies how men willspeak of him hereafter. His fame lasts perhaps twothousand years. And what are two thousand years?asked Mr Ramsay ironically, staring at the hedge).What, indeed, if you look from a mountain-top downthe long wastes of the ages? The very stone onekicks with one’s boot will outlast Shakespeare. Hisown little light would shine, not very brightly, for ayear or two, and would then be merged in somebigger light, and that in a bigger still. (He lookedinto the darkness, into the intricacy of the twigs.)Who then could blame the leader of that forlornparty which after all has climbed high enough to seethe waste of the years and the perishing of stars, ifbefore death stiffens his limbs beyond the power ofmovement he does a little consciously raise hisnumbed fingers to his brow, and square his shoulders,so that when the search party comes they will findhim dead at his post, the fine figure of a soldier? MrRamsay squared his shoulders and stood very up-right by the urn.

Who shall blame him, if, so standing for a moment,he dwells upon fame, upon search parties, upon cairnsraised 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 asleepnot much caring if he wakes or not, he now perceives