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"Here it is. Let me go on by myself."

And he sat down, because he was afraid.

Then he said, again: "You know--my flower . . . I am responsible for her. And she is so weak!

She is so naive! She has four thorns, of no use at all, to protect herself against all the world . . ."

I too sat down, because I was not able to stand up any longer.

"There now--that is all . . ."

He still hesitated a little; then he got up.

He took one step. I could not move.

There was nothing but a flash of yellow close to his ankle.

He remained motionless for an instant. He did not cry out.

He fell as gently as a tree falls.

There was not even any sound, because of the sand.

And now six years have already gone by . . .

I have never yet told this story.

The companions who met me on my return were well content to see me alive.

I was sad, but I told them: "I am tired."

Now my sorrow is comforted a little.

That is to say--not entirely.

But I know that he did go back to his planet, because I did not find his body at daybreak.

It was not such a heavy body . . . and at night I love to listen to the stars.

It is like five hundred million little bells . . .

But there is one extraordinary thing . . . when I drew the muzzle for the little prince, I forgot to add the leather strap to it.