Evan visualised his own body putrefying, and the heart shrivelled in his breast. He clenched his teeth. All he had left was pride. "I will show nothing," he repeated to himself.
With too much suffering, the whole scene became slightly unreal to him. He heard their talk as from a little distance:
"We will draw lots. Who's got a sheet of paper? Anything will do.... This will do. Tear it in eight pieces.... No, seven. Leave C. D. out. He couldn't pull the trigger if his own life depended on it.... I mark a cross on one piece, see? Now fold each piece in four.... Call Aunt Liza up-stairs.... A hat? All right. Drop them in. Shake it up.... Don't let on anything to Aunt Liza.... Be quiet; here she is.... Aunt Liza hold this hat above your head, so.... Now come up to her one at a time and draw a paper. Do not open it until the last one is drawn."
A dreadful silence succeeded. The hard breathing of many men was audible in the room. Little cold drops sprang out in front of Evan's ears. A horrible constriction fastened on his breast, so that he could scarcely draw breath.
"Am I a coward?" he asked himself—and that caused him the sharpest pang of all. "Other men have died without flinching. Why do I suffer so?"
The resolute voice said: "Leave the room, Aunt Liza."
Evan heard the old negress shuffle out. She was the nearest thing to a friend that he had there.
"Now," cried the man, with a sharp catch of excitement.
Evan heard the crackling of the little bits of paper, and heard their breath escape them variously.
"Who has it?"