Agat stood by Ro-lery in front of the sinking death-fire, in the high sea-beleaguered fort, and it seemed to him then that the old man’s death and the young man’s victory were the same thing. Neither grief nor pride had so much truth in them as did joy, the joy that trembled in the cold wind between sky and sea, bright and brief as fire. This was his fort, his city, his world; these were his people. He was no exile here. “Come,” he said to Rolery as the fire sank down to ashes, “come, let’s go home.”
