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“It sounds pretty rotten,” I said.

“He brought it on himself. After all, he’s only got what he deserved.”

“I think on the whole we all get what we deserve,” I said.”But that doesn’t prevent its being rather horrible.”

Two or three days later my friend and I were taking a walk. We were strolling along a narrow path through an olive grove.

“There’s Wilson,” said my friend suddenly.”Don’t look, you’ll only frighten him. Go straight on.”

I walked with my eyes on the path, but out of the corners of them I saw a man hiding behind an olive tree. He did not move as we approached, but I fell that he was watching us. As soon as we had passed I heard a scamper. Wilson, like a hunted animal, had made for safely. That was the last I ever saw of him.

He died last year. He had endured that life for six years. He was found one morning on the mountainside lying quite peacefully as though he had died in his sleep. From where he lay he had been able to see those two great rocks called the Faraglioni which stand out of the sea. It was full moon and he must have gone to see them by moonlight. Perhaps he died of the beauty of that sight.