"I shaw you."
"Huh?"
"I shaw you—called—wouldn't stop. Why didn't yo' stop?"
"Never heerd yo'; we's runnin'."
The Satyr's recital was not given with the lucidity of my transcription. It was halting, stammering, uncertain in places, but it imparted a glorious truth which rolled a stone from my breast. Even in the depths of my state of inebriety I was uplifted. I saw the light of day once more, who had been following paths of gloom and horror. I remember that I arose with the intention of grasping his hand to thank him, then a veil dropped before my eyes and my mind went blank.
I awoke this morning with my head splitting and every joint stiff. I had spent the remaining hours of night upon the floor. My first thought was of my visitor. I sat up and looked around, but he was gone. All of this day I have been trying to get myself together. I was never drunk before—beastly drunk. I never shall be again. It is not the physical discomfort which causes me to make this declaration. That is bad enough, but I am no cringing coward, and am ready to pay the penalty for any conscious misdemeanor. It is the shame of it which makes me say it.
When a man sets out to tell the whole truth about himself he has a task before him. Willingly would I have omitted this scandalous episode; not willingly, but gladly. I feel humiliated; I feel unworthy of that great joy which surely will be mine as soon as I can see my Dryad. True, it was for her I did it. I had to humor that antic creature to worm his secret from him. My soul is at peace to-night despite the misery of my mistreated body. Now I must go to bed, and I believe I can sleep. To-morrow—to-morrow—oh, my brothers! did you ever go to bed in the firm belief that to-morrow heaven's gate would open for you?