The three men—their gaze riveted on Petit’s left hand as if fascinated—crawled towards him. It was a terrible picture, all the more terrible for the glory and beauty of its setting, for the sparkle and colour and sunshine which were the picture’s frame.
More terrible, too, in its tragic, portentous silence.
“Draw!” he commanded.
The man under whose face the clutched fist was thrust sucked in a deep breath which was almost a moan.
He extended a trembling hand and drew forth a single splinter.
“Draw!” repeated Jean Petit, offering to each in turn.
The lots were drawn. The spectres waited, sitting silently, their eyes upon the face of their commander.
“The shortest!” snarled the man with the knife.
Their sallow features were full of anguish. Four men knew that it was the mission of one to die. To die—at once.
For man born of woman death is at all times terrible. But with these death had also a sequel!