So the thing went; and I panted and throbbed, and sank down upon the ground for weakness. There came to me all that mad poetry that I had written myself, all that victory that I had won, that freedom, that vision, that glory! It came to me ten times over, for was it not everything to me now? It was more than I could bear, it split my brain. And it would not leave me. All through the long, long night I prayed and wept with it; and in the morning I reeled through the street with it, and men stared at me. * * * * * But here was one time when I did not fear men! I was free--I was a soul at last. I had won the victory, I went my way as a god. I had renounced, I had given up fear, I had given up my _self_. My mind was made up, and I never change my mind. I had passed the death-sentence upon myself, I walked through the streets as a disembodied soul--as the Captive dragged to the banquet-hall. But no, I went to my torture of myself. * * * * * I went to the store. It was early Sunday morning, and the place was just open.--I got my papers and put them under my arm--my original draft of The Captive, and all my journal. I went down the street and came to a place where a man was burning some trash. I was a demon in my strength just then; my head reeled, but I went with the dancing step of new-born things. I stood upon the heights, I “laughed at all Sorrow-play and Sorrow-reality”! “Ho, sir,” I cried, “I have things here that will make a fire for you!” And so I knelt down and unwrapped The Captive. “There is much fire in this,” I said; “once I thought it would explode, I did. It was a shot that would have been heard around the world, sir! Only I could not pull the trigger.” The man stared at me, and so I burned it, page by page, and laughed, and sang a foolish song that I thought of: _Stride la vampa!_ And afterward I unwrapped the journal. I laughed at my journal--'tis a foolish thing; but then all at once my conscience touched me. I said: “Is it not a shame? Is it not small of you? They would not heed you!--fool, what of it? Perhaps it is not their fault--certainly it is their sorrow. But you will not get much higher than you are now by trampling upon them.” And so I stopped; and I wrapped up my journal again. “You have fire enough now, sir,” I said to the man. “I will keep this to build another fire with.” I went on. “Let them have it,” I said, “let them make what they can out of it.” And then I laughed aloud: “And they will discuss it! And there will be reviews of it! And wise articles about it! And learned scholars will write tomes upon it, showing how many sentences there are in it ending with a punctuation mark; and old ladies and Methodist ministers will shake their heads over it and say: 'See what comes of not believing in Adam!'” I walked on, singing the Ride of the Valkyries, the children staring at me, going to Sunday-school. * * * * *