Was it the earth he was treading, solid earth? It seemed to sway up and down under him till he was giddy. He was giddy. He was going to faint away. Oh, that would be the last disgrace. To faint away on the street because he had lost his job. The world began to whirl around before his eyes, to turn black. He caught at a tree.
For an instant his eyes were blurred, his ears rang loudly; and then with racking pains, consciousness began to come back to him. He still stood there, his arm still flung around the tree. He had not fainted.
In the pause while he fought inwardly for strength to go on, when every step seemed to plunge him more deeply into the black pit of despair, he was conscious of a steady voice, saying something in his ear—or was it inside his head? The street was quite empty. It must be in his head. How plainly he heard it—another one of those tags of poetry which haunted him....
“But make no sojourn in thy outgoing,
For haply it may be
That when thy feet return at evening
Death shall come in with thee.”
At once it was as though strong wine had been held to his lips, as though he had drunk a great draught of vigor. His eye cleared, his heart leaped up, he started forward with a quick firm step.
“When thy feet return at evening
Death shall come in with thee.”