An hour before the daybreak it became apparent to us
that he was sinking, and our distress was very keen. Indeed,
Good melted into tears at the idea -- a fact that called forth
a last gentle flicker of humour from our dying friend, for even
at that hour he could be humorous. Good's emotion had, by loosening
the muscles, naturally caused his eyeglass to fall from its accustomed
place, and Quatermain, who always observed everything, observed
this also.
'At last,' he gasped, with an attempt at a smile, 'I have seen
Good without his eyeglass.'
After that he said no more till the day broke, when he asked
to be lifted up to watch the rising of the sun for the last time.
'In a very few minutes,' he said, after gazing earnestly at it,
'I shall have passed through those golden gates.'
Ten minutes afterwards he raised himself and looked us fixedly
in the face.
'I am going a stranger journey than any we have ever taken together.
Think of me sometimes,' he murmured. 'God bless you all.
I shall wait for you.' And with a sigh he fell back dead.
And so passed away a character that I consider went as near perfection
as any it has ever been my lot to encounter.
Tender, constant, humorous, and possessing of many of the qualities
that go to make a poet, he was yet almost unrivalled as a man
of action and a citizen of the world.
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