Three hours to live! Nathaniel lowered his head, and
the rawhide tightened perceptibly at the movement. Neil was watching
him. His face shone as white as the starlit sand. His mouth was partly
open.
"I'm devilish sorry--for you--Nat--" he said.
His words came with painful slowness. There was a grating huskiness in
his voice.
"This damned rawhide--is pinching--my Adam's apple--"
He smiled. His white teeth gleamed, his eyes laughed, and with a heart
bursting with grief Nathaniel looked away from him. He had seen courage,
but never like this, and deep down in his soul he prayed--prayed that
death might come to him first, so that he might not have to look upon
the agonies of this other, whose end would be ghastly in its fearless
resignation. His own suffering had become excruciating. Sharp pains
darted like red-hot needles through his limbs, his back tortured him,
and his head ached as though a knife had cloven the base of his skull.
Still--he could breathe. By pressing his head against the post it was
not difficult for him to fill his lungs with air. But the strength of
his limbs was leaving him. He no longer felt any sensation in his
cramped feet. His knees were numb. He measured the paralysis of death
creeping up his legs inch by inch, driving the sharp pains before it,
until suddenly his weight tottered under him and he hung heavily upon
the thong about his throat. For a full half minute he ceased to breathe,
and a feeling of ineffable relief swept over him, for during those few
seconds his body was at rest.
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