In exactly the same level, almost monotonous, voice, Thorne whispered a pertinent question:
“Shall I do this for you?”
“It is nothing to me,” said the woman quietly, and might God forgive her, she prayed, for that falsehood.
Thorne looked at her, his soul in his eyes. If her face had been carved from marble, it could not have been more expressionless and indifferent. He could not know how wildly her heart was beating underneath that stony exterior. Well, she had turned against him. He was nothing to her. There was no use living any longer. She did not care.
“Were you responsible in any way for it?” he asked.
The girl shook her head and turned away without looking at him. She had not the least idea of what he was about to do. Not one man in a thousand would have done it. Perhaps if he went to his death in some quixotic way, he might redeem himself in her eyes, had flashed into Thorne’s mind, as he turned to the guard.
“Sergeant,” he said, saluting. He spoke in a clear, cool, most indifferent way. “You had better take a look at the rifles of your command. I understand they have been tampered with.”
“What the hell!” cried the Sergeant, seizing a piece from the nearest man. He snapped open the breech-plug and drew out the cartridge and examined it. Some one had bitten off the bullet! He saw everything clearly. “Squad ready!” he cried. “Draw cartridges!”
There was a rattling of breech-plugs and a low murmur of astonishment, as every man found that his cartridge was without a bullet.
“With ball cartridges, load!” cried the Sergeant. “Carry arms!”