He now made no further attempt to evade the menacing stare of the gun barrel.  If he turned away his eyes an instant it was to look for assistance (although he could not see the ground on either side the ruin), and he permitted them to return, obedient to the imperative fascination.  If he closed them it was from weariness, and instantly the poignant pain in his forehead—­the prophecy and menace of the bullet—­ forced him to reopen them.

The tension of nerve and brain was too severe; nature came to his relief with intervals of unconsciousness.  Reviving from one of these he became sensible of a sharp, smarting pain in his right hand, and when he worked his fingers together, or rubbed his palm with them, he could feel that they were wet and slippery.  He could not see the hand, but he knew the sensation; it was running blood.  In his delirium he had beaten it against the jagged fragments of the wreck, had clutched it full of splinters.  He resolved that he would meet his fate more manly.  He was a plain, common soldier, had no religion and not much philosophy; he could not die like a hero, with great and wise last words, even if there had been some one to hear them, but he could die “game,” and he would.  But if he could only know when to expect the shot!

Some rats which had probably inhabited the shed came sneaking and scampering about.  One of them mounted the pile of debris that held the rifle; another followed and another.  Searing regarded them at first with indifference, then with friendly interest; then, as the thought flashed into his bewildered mind that they might touch the trigger of his rifle, he cursed them and ordered them to go away.  “It is no business of yours,” he cried.

The creatures went away; they would return later, attack his face, gnaw away his nose, cut his throat—­he knew that, but he hoped by that time to be dead.

Nothing could now unfix his gaze from the little ring of metal with its black interior.  The pain in his forehead was fierce and incessant.  He felt it gradually penetrating the brain more and more deeply, until at last its progress was arrested by the wood at the back of his head.  It grew momentarily more insufferable:  he began wantonly beating his lacerated hand against the splinters again to counteract that horrible ache.  It seemed to throb with a slow, regular recurrence, each pulsation sharper than the preceding, and sometimes he cried out, thinking he felt the fatal bullet.  No thoughts of home, of wife and children, of country, of glory.  The whole record of memory was effaced.  The world had passed away—­not a vestige remained.  Here in this confusion of timbers and boards is the sole universe.  Here is immortality in time—­each pain an everlasting life.  The throbs tick off eternities.

Jerome Searing, the man of courage, the formidable enemy, the strong, resolute warrior, was as pale as a ghost.  His jaw was fallen; his eyes protruded; he trembled in every fibre; a cold sweat bathed his entire body; he screamed with fear.  He was not insane—­he was terrified.