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234 roads, wandering, fleeing, knocking at the doors of a convent, then resuming his flight, and at last falling upon the way, in an obscure little village, never to rise again. On his death-bed he wept, not for himself, but for the unhappy; and he said, in the midst of his sobs:

“There are millions of human beings on earth who are suffering: why do you think only of me?”

Then it came—it was Sunday, November 20, 1910, a little after six in the morning—the “deliverance,” as he named it: “Death, blessed Death.”