“And you, that have suffered most of all—­what had I left for you?  You, a princess among the rest, the only one that never looked up to me humbly, but stepped bravely to meet me as an equal.  Yours was the hardest lot of all—­for I gave you the dregs of my life, rags that a beggar would despise....”

Suddenly he felt an inward shock; his heart seemed to check for a moment, then went on beating violently; the blood rushed to his head.  Again the check, followed by the same racing heart-beat as before....

Instinctively he grasped his wrist to feel his pulse.  A few quick beats, a pause, then on again—­what is it?

The fear of death was on him now, and he sprang up as if thinking of flight.  Gradually the fit passes off; he stands waiting, but it does not return, only a strange feeling of helplessness remains—­helplessness and physical fear.  He sits down again.

“Was that you, Life, that struck so heavy a blow?  Have you come for your reckoning, too?  Like an innkeeper, noting this and that upon the score, and calling for payment at last?  I should know you by now—­I have seen a glimpse of your face before....

“’Tis a heavy book you bring.  Well, what shall we take first?  That?  Yes, of course—­it was always the heaviest item with us.  My father ... what was it mother told of him?  And his father before him....

“Look back, you say?  Back along the tracks I made long ago?  Good—­I look; you go about your business in the proper way, I see.  If you had come with sermons, and talk of sin and heaven and hell, I’d leave you to preach alone—­none of that for me.  I know ... that love is in our flesh and blood, drawing us like a magnet—­in our day, none draws back a single step of his way for the fear of sin and hell—­there is always time to repent and be forgiven later on!  But your book shows our acts on this side, and what comes of them on that—­and we stand with bowed heads, seeing how all is written in our own blood.”

He stared before him, as if at something tangible and real.

“Yes, there’s the book, and there is my account.  All these strokes and lines—­what’s that?  Something I can’t make out.  Here’s my road, there are my doings—­that I understand.  And here are all that I’ve had dealings with.  But this mess of broken lines ... this way and that...?  Ah, consequences!  Is that it?  Well, well....  All these run together at one point—­that’s clear enough—­myself, of course.  But these others running out all ways, endlessly....  What’s that you say?  More consequences, but to others!

“No, no!  Not all that!  Something of the sort I was prepared for—­but all that?  Is it always so in your book—­is everything set down?”

“All that leaves any trace behind—­all acts that make for any consequence!”

“All?  But man is a free agent—­this does not look like freedom.”

“Free to act, yes, but every act knits the fine threads of consequence—­that can decide the fate of a life!”