The silence of the prison, the hush without the walls, was pierced by a single shriek, a shriek which seemed shot from earth to heaven, a mighty shriek of furious warning.
Every man in the room jumped. The newspaper men drew their breath with a hard sound. Only Patience gave no heed.
“It’s an engine,” stuttered the head-keeper, “and there’s no train due at this hour—”
The outer door was flung violently open. The warden stamped heavily into the room. His face was purple.
“Why in hell hasn’t this execution taken place?” he roared. “Get to work!”
The head-keeper’s face turned very white. His hand shook a little. The men stared at him with jumping nerves. Patience and the warden were the only persons in the room unaffected by the inexplicable excitement which had taken possession of the atmosphere.
“Get to work,” repeated the warden.
Patience walked to the chair and seated herself, extending her arms in position. Once more her brain relaxed its grasp on every thought but the determination not to scream nor quiver. She closed her eyes and set her teeth.
The guards began to fasten the straps, but slowly, under the significant eyes of the head-keeper. The warden stamped up and down. The electrician came forward. The surgeon went into an adjoining room and cast his eyes over his instruments, laid out on a long table.
The brain works eccentrically in such moments. Patience’s suddenly flung upon her consciousness a picture of Carmel tower. She speculated upon the fate of her owl. She recalled that the Mission had been restored, and wondered if Solomon, that proud and elderly hermit, had turned his haughty back upon civilisation to dwell alone in the black arbours of the remote pine tops of the forest. She saw the spray toss itself into scattering wraiths, as when she had knelt there—a thousand years ago—a little lonely girl in copper-toed boots, dreaming dreams that were pricked with no premonition of life’s tragic horrors.