It returned to him
--the thought of That which had
waited through all the ages to see
what he--one man--would do.
He had never exactly pitied himself
before--he did not know that he
pitied himself now, but he was a
man going to his death, and a light,
cold sweat broke out on him and
it seemed as if it was not he who
did it, but some other--he flung
out his arms and cried aloud words
he had not known he was going to
speak.
"Lord! Lord! What shall I do
to be saved?"
But the Silence gave no answer.
It was the Silence still.
And after standing a few moments
panting, his arms fell and his head
dropped, and turning the handle of
the door, he went out to buy the
pistol.
II
As he went down the narrow staircase,
covered with its dingy and
threadbare carpet, he found the
house so full of dirty yellow haze
that he realized that the fog must be
of the extraordinary ones which are
remembered in after-years as abnormal
specimens of their kind. He
recalled that there had been one of
the sort three years before, and that
traffic and business had been almost
entirely stopped by it, that accidents
had happened in the streets, and that
people having lost their way had
wandered about turning corners until
they found themselves far from their
intended destinations and obliged to
take refuge in hotels or the houses of
hospitable strangers. Curious incidents
had occurred and odd stories
were told by those who had felt
themselves obliged by circumstances
to go out into the baffling gloom.
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