He called and
listened; within there were only silence and that old, familiar
sound of the seconds trooping by, some with short and some with
long steps. He knew that soon they were to grow faint and weary
and pass no more that way. He ran to the foot of the stairs and
stood a moment hesitating. Then he walked slowly to the county
jail and looked up at the dark and silent building. For a little
time he leaned upon a fence, there in the still night, shaken with
sobs. Then he began walking up and down by the jail yard. He had
not slept an hour in weeks and was weary, but he could not bear to
come away and walked slower as the night wore on, hearing only the
tread of his own feet. He knew not where to go and was drifting up
and down, like a derelict in the sea. By and by people began to
pass him,--weary crowds,--and they were pointing at the patches on
his coat, and beneath them he could feel a kind of burning, but the
crowd was dumb. He tried to say, "I am not to blame," but his
heart smote him when it was half said. Then, suddenly, many people
were beside him, and far ahead on a steep hill, in dim, gray light,
he could see Darrel toiling upward. And sometimes the tinker
turned, beckoning him to follow.
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