Tristram glanced again at the gun. Even at that
moment he had enough presence of mind to note that it was pointed
downwards, and at such an angle that those who lay flat must
infallibly receive all its contents. He noted this even while it
seemed that every one of his faculties was frozen up. He felt that
he could move neither hand nor foot; and somehow he knew that since,
because of the chain, he could not leave the bench, he must sit
upright. And so he stiffened his back, laid his hands on his lap,
and waited with his eyes on the gun.
Through the port-hole he could see the English gunner. He saw the
fuse in his hand. He counted the seconds; wondered, even, how the
fellow could be so deliberate. He heard the explosions all around,
and speculated. Would the next be his turn? Or the next? Would it
be painful? What was the next world like? And would his body be
badly mangled?
The gunner had the match ready, when the lad's lips moved and a cry
broke from them--a cry which astonished him as he uttered it, for he
had no notion that his brain was busy with such matters.
"O! my Father, have pity on my poor soul! I have loved all men and
one woman. Give comfort to her, and have mercy on my poor soul!"
As the last word dropped from his lips, a great calm fell upon him
and his eyes rested quietly on the gunner's hand as the man set the
lighted match to the touch-hole of the gun.
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