But his voice sounding so strange and weak, even to himself, so far distant as though it emanated from another being walking alongside of him, and not from himself.
And his feet were walking, but automatically, it seemed.
And he was conscious of that familiar shuffle — shuffle — as they pushed him on and on toward that door.
Now it was here; now it was being opened.
There it was — at last — the chair he had so often seen in his dreams — that he so dreaded — to which he was now compelled to go.
He was being pushed toward that — into that — on — on — through the door which was now open — to receive him — but which was as quickly closed again on all the earthly life he had ever known.
It was the Reverend McMillan, who, gray and weary — a quarter of an hour later, walked desolately — and even a little uncertainly — as one who is physically very weak — through the cold doors of the prison.
It was so faint — so weak — so gray as yet — this late winter day — and so like himself now.
Dead!
He, Clyde, had walked so nervously and yet somehow trustingly beside him but a few minutes before — and now he was dead.
The law!
Prisons such as this.
Strong, evil men who scoffed betimes where Clyde had prayed.
That confession!
Had he decided truly — with the wisdom of God, as God gave him to see wisdom?
Had he? Clyde’s eyes!
He, himself — the Reverend McMillan had all but fainted beside him as that cap was adjusted to his head — that current turned on — and he had had to be assisted, sick and trembling, from the room — he upon whom Clyde had relied.
And he had asked God for strength — was asking it.
He walked along the silent street — only to be compelled to pause and lean against a tree — leafless in the winter — so bare and bleak.
Clyde’s eyes!
That look as he sank limply into that terrible chair, his eyes fixed nervously and, as he thought, appealingly and dazedly upon him and the group surrounding him.
Had he done right?
Had his decision before Governor Waltham been truly sound, fair or merciful?
Should he have said to him — that perhaps — perhaps — there had been those other influences playing upon him? . . .
Was he never to have mental peace again, perhaps?
“I know my Redeemer liveth and that He will keep him against that day.”
And then he walked and walked hours before he could present himself to Clyde’s mother, who, on her knees in the home of the Rev. and Mrs. Francis Gault, Salvationists of Auburn, had been, since four- thirty, praying for the soul of her son whom she still tried to visualize as in the arms of his Maker.
“I know in whom I have believed,” was a part of her prayer.
SOUVENIR
Dusk, of a summer night.
And the tall walls of the commercial heart of the city of San Francisco — tall and gray in the evening shade.
And up a broad street from the south of Market — now comparatively hushed after the din of the day, a little band of five — a man of about sixty, short, stout, yet cadaverous as to the flesh of his face — and more especially about the pale, dim eyes — and with bushy white hair protruding from under a worn, round felt hat — a most unimportant and exhausted looking person, who carried a small, portable organ such as is customarily used by street preachers and singers.
And by his side, a woman not more than five years his junior — taller, not so broad, but solid of frame and vigorous — with snow white hair and wearing an unrelieved costume of black — dress, bonnet, shoes.
And her face broader and more characterful than her husband’s, but more definitely seamed with lines of misery and suffering.
At her side, again, carrying a Bible and several hymn books — a boy of not more than seven or eight — very round-eyed and alert, who, because of some sympathetic understanding between him and his elderly companion, seemed to desire to walk close to her — a brisk and smart stepping — although none-too-well dressed boy.
With these three, again, but walking independently behind, a faded and unattractive woman of twenty-seven or eight and another woman of about fifty — apparently, because of their close resemblance, mother and daughter.
It was hot, with the sweet languor of a Pacific summer about it all.
At Market, the great thoroughfare which they had reached — and because of threading throngs of automobiles and various lines of cars passing in opposite directions, they awaited the signal of the traffic officer.
“Russell, stay close now.” It was the wife speaking.
“Better take hold of my hand.”
“It seems to me,” commented the husband, very feeble and yet serene, “that the traffic here grows worse all the time.”
The cars clanged their bells. The automobiles barked and snorted.
But the little group seemed entirely unconscious of anything save a set purpose to make its way across the street.
“Street preachers,” observed a passing bank clerk to his cashier girl friend.
“Sure — I see them up here nearly every Wednesday.”
“Gee, it’s pretty tough on the little kid, I should think.
He’s pretty small to be dragged around on the streets, don’t you think, Ella?”
“Well, I’ll say so.
I’d hate to see a brother of mine in on any such game.
What kind of a life is that for a kid anyhow?” commented Ella as they passed on.