be going to take place--how often had I rehearsed it beforehand
with anguish--and then as suddenly became aware that I should in
some strange way be disappointed if it did not take place. I wanted
on the whole to go through with it, and to see what it would be
like. A deep-seated curiosity came to my aid. It did take place,
and it was very bad--worse than I could have imagined; but it was
not terrible!

These are just four instances which come into my mind. I should be
glad to feel that the courage which undoubtedly came had been the
creation of my will; but it was not so. In three cases, the events
came unexpectedly; but in the fourth case I had long anticipated
the moment with extreme dread. Yet in that last case the fear
suddenly slipped away, without the smallest effort on my part; and
in all four cases some strange gusto of experience, some sense of
heightened life and adventure, rose in the mind like a fountain--so
that even in the crevasse I said to myself, not excitedly but
serenely, "So this is what it feels like to await death!"

It was this particular experience which gave me an inkling into
that which in so many tragic histories seems incredible--that men
often do pass to death, by scaffold and by stake, at the last
moment, in serenity and even in joy. I do not doubt for a moment
that it is the immortal principle in man, the sense of
deathlessness, which comes to his aid. It is the instinct which, in
spite of all knowledge and experience, says suddenly, in a moment
like that, "Well, what then?" That instinct is a far truer thing
than any expectation or imagination. It sees things, in supreme
moments, in a true proportion. It asserts that when the rope jerks,
or the flames leap up, or the benumbing blow falls, there is