here he had
received his wounds, and had stepped out into the air, into the night.
All the resolution of his soul was bent upon one purpose. He
staggered, but still stumbled onward.

It seemed to him that he heard the sound of water, and blindly,
unconsciously, he headed that way. He entered the shadow of the woods
and passed down the little slope of the hill. He fell, rather than
seated himself, at the side of the brook whose voice he had heard in
the night. He was alone. The wilderness was all about him--the
wilderness which had always called to him, and which now was to claim
him.

He sat, gasping, almost blind, feeling at his pockets. At last he
found it--one of the sulphur matches made for him by good old Dr.
Saugrain. Tremblingly he essayed to light it, and at last he saw the
flare.

With skill of custom, though now almost unconsciously, his fingers
felt for dry bits of bark and leaves, little twigs. Yes, the match
served its purpose. A tiny flame flickered between his feet as he sat.

Did any eye see Meriwether Lewis as he sat there in the dark at his
last camp fire? Did any guilty eye look on him making his last fight?

He sat alone by the little fire. His hand, dropping sometimes,
responsive only to the supreme effort of his will, fumbled in the
bosom of his old coat. There were some papers there--some things which
no other eyes than his must ever see! Here was a secret--it must
always be a secret--her secret and his! He would hide forever from the
world what had been theirs in common.

The tiny flame rose up more strongly, twice, thrice, five times--six
times in all! One by one he had placed them on the flames--these
letters that he had carried on his heart for years--the six letters
that she had written him when he was far away in the unknown. He held
the last one long, trying to see the words. He groaned. He was almost
blind. His trembling finger found the last word of the last letter. It
rose before him in tall characters now, all done in flame and not in
block--_Theodosia!_

Now they were gone! No one could ever see them. No one could know how
he had treasured them all these years. She was safe!

Before his soul, in the time of his great accounting, there rose the
passing picture of the years. Free from suffering, now absolved,
resigned, he was a boy once more, and all the world was young. He saw
again the slopes of old Albemarle, beautiful in the green and gold of
an early autumn day in old Vir