He walked out. Those who watched him until he turned out of Main Street
into Fourth, and so toward the river, aver--marvelling duly at his
powers of resistance--that the head of Potts was erect, his gaze bent
aloft, and his gait one of perfect directness save that he stepped a
little high.

I like to think of him in that last walk. I like to bring up as nearly
as I can his intense exaltation. It _had_ been a beautiful day. And now,
as he looked aloft, walking with an automatic precision, his eyes must
have beheld glorious vistas, in which he rode a chariot of triumph at
the head of a splendid procession, while his ears rang with chaste
tributes to his worth trumpeted by outriding heralds. And the good earth
was firm beneath his tread, stretching broadly off for him to walk upon
and behold his apotheosis.

I cannot wonder that he stepped high, nor can I find it in my heart to
begrudge him his day. Cunningly had he clutched a few golden moments
from the hoard that Fate, the niggard, guards from us so jealously. To
myself I acclaimed him as one to be envied.

I have always liked to believe that the splendors of that last walk
endured to the end--that there was no uncertainty, no hesitation, above
all, no vulgar stumbling; but that the last high step, which plunged him
into the chill waters of the race, was lifted in the same exulting
serenity as the first.

I stood in my garden that evening, charmed by the wild, sweet,
gusty-gentle music of the spring night.

Northward, in the gathering dusk, came a solitary figure walking