We got him aboard on a stretcher, and the pilgrims carried him to the cabin. He was a voice, and he had an immense plan: "Close the shutter. I can't bear to look at this." The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, and his life ran out of him twice as fast. One evening the manager's boy put his head in the doorway and said in a tone of scathing contempt, "Mistah Kurtz, he dead." I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end and to pay my respects to the pale woman who had loved him. She was in mourning a year after, and she said she had been his friend, and asked me to repeat his last words. "The last word he pronounced was your name." I heard a light sigh, and then a cry of triumph and unspeakable pain. It would have been too dark altogether to tell her the truth.