The Man Who Died by D. H. Lawrence

the door.
    It was the life of the little day, the life of little people. And the man
who had died said to himself: "Unless we encompass it in the greater day,
and set the little life in the circle of the greater life, all is
disaster."
    Even the tops of the hills were in shadow. Only the sky was still
upwardly radiant. The sea was a vast milky shadow. The man who had died
rose a little stiffly and turned into the grove.
    There was no one at the temple. He went on to his lair in the rock.
There, the slave–men had carried out the old heath of the bedding, swept
the rock floor, and were spreading with nice art the myrtle, then the
rougher heath, then the soft, bushy heath–tips on top, for a bed. Over it
all they put a well–tanned white ox–skin. The maids had laid folded
woollen covers at the head of the cave, and the wine–jar, the oil–jar, a
terra–cotta drinking–cup and a basket containing bread, salt, cheese,
dried figs and eggs stood neatly arranged. There was also a little
brazier of charcoal. The cave was suddenly full, and a dwelling–place.
    The woman of Isis stood in the hollow by the tiny spring.
    Only one slave at a time could pass. The girl–slaves waited at the
entrance to the narrow place. When the man who had died appeared, the
woman sent the girls away. The men–slaves still arranged the bed, making
the job as long as possible. But the woman of Isis dismissed them too.
And the man who had died came to look at his house.
    "Is it well?" the woman asked him.
    "It is very well," the man replied. "But the lady, your mother, and he
who is no doubt the steward, watched while the slaves brought the goods.
Will they not oppose you?"
    "I have my own portion! Can I not give of my own? Who is going to oppose
me and the gods?" she said, with a certain soft fury, touched with
exasperation. So that he knew that her mother would oppose her, and that
the spirit of the little life would fight against the spirit of the
greater. And he thought: 'Why did the woman of Isis relinquish her
portion in the daily world? She should have kept her goods fiercely!'
    "Will you eat and drink?" she said. "On the ashes are warm eggs. And I
will go up to the meal at the villa. But in the second hour of the night
I shall come down to the temple. 0, then, will you come too to Isis?" She
looked at him, and a queer glow dilated her eyes. This was her dream, and
it was greater than herself. He could not bear to thwart her or hurt her
in the least thing now. She was in the full glow of her woman's mystery.
    "Shall I wait at the temple?" he said.
    "0, wait at the second hour and I shall come." He heard the humming
supplication in her voice and his fibres quivered. "But the lady, your
mother?" he said gently.
    The woman looked at him, startled.
    "She will not thwart me!" she said.
    So he knew that the mother would thwart the daughter, for the daughter
had left her goods in the hands of her mother, who would hold fast to
this power.
    But she went, and the man who had died lay reclining on his couch, and
ate the eggs from the ashes, and dipped his bread in oil, and ate it, for
his flesh was dry: and he mixed wine and water, and drank. And so he lay
still, and the lamp made a small bud of light.
    He was absorbed and enmeshed in new sensations. The woman of Isis was
lovely to him, not so much in form as in the wonderful womanly glow of
her. Suns beyond suns had dipped her in mysterious fire, the mysterious
fire of a potent woman, and to touch her was like touching the sun. Best
of all was her tender desire for him, like sunshine, so soft and still.
    "She is like sunshine upon me," he said to himself, stretching his limbs.
"I have never before stretched my limbs in such sunshine, as her desire
for me. The greatest of all gods granted me this."
    At the same time he was haunted by the fear of the outer world. "If they
can, they will kill us," he said to himself. "But there is a law of the
sun which protects us."
    And again he said to himself: "I