Nothing. Nothing came to him and he’s nothing, the man I killed. I washed his blood from my hands, his blood and my own. Blood will have blood they say.

She dressed my side. The bullet carried some cloth into the wound. I think it is clean now. I’ve been watching a hoodie on the other hill, near where he lies. Maybe I’m too late to close his eyes.

9 OCTOBER

I THINK WE were never so happy as now. We have made up our minds and chosen a course; we have escaped from doubt. The fears that afflicted us since we came to this place are gone from mind like the cold and hunger and fatigue of the past few days. We are not anxious or afraid any more. We have found surer peace in the time of the racked world’s anguish than ever pleased us while the earth was quiet.

I can scarcely take my eyes from Terry as she bends over the poor dying creature in our hammock. She has been standing there, still as a statue, for a long time. Her face is radiant, her eyes shine. Happiness burns in me as I watch her. Often I rise from where I sit writing to go beside her. He is almost gone, the gaunt lines of his famished cheeks are growing smoother. His vast eyes stay on Terry’s face. They are free from terror at last. When I look at him, and see his thin hands lying on the bedclothes, I turn my back in momentary shame that ever I feared this frail thing whose passing breath, no louder than a sigh, marks an end to our life here. Shame does not endure; we have helped him, and ourselves, and the days of our fear are spent.

Though the cave is warm and bright I can think of leaving its comfort without a pang. It served its purpose, it sheltered us and brought us to know ourselves and chose the only way of peace. When I remember the months that we have spent here I do not grudge their alarms and dangers, but rather I am grateful for that harsh instruction because it taught us wisdom and gave us happiness beyond fear and thought of our own safety.

I gaze at Terry’s pitiful face. If I had not her, what a poor tormented thing I’d be, like the forlorn man who dies in our bed. I have no courage, save with her, no wisdom that is not hers, no hope, no life except in her. Oh, Terry! Terry! I’d live a million years and suffer all that time can inflict to reach a moment such as this.

The shortening day is done. When he’s past the reach of hunger we’ll go carrying what we can, to meet our fellows. To suffer is happiness, if we go rightly.