That question was once more propounded,—now for the third time,—Le Gros himself acting as the spokesman. No one said anything in reply, or made any sign of being opposed to an answer being given. On the contrary, all appeared to yield, if not a cheerful, at least a tacit assent to what they all knew to be meant for a proposal,—knowing also its fearful nature and consequences.
They also comprehended whence the answer was to come. Twice before had they consulted that dread oracle, whose response was certain death to one of their number. Twice before had they recognised and submitted to its decree. No preliminaries needed to be discussed. These had been long ago arranged. There was nothing more to do than cast the lots.
On the moment after Le Gros had put the question, a movement was visible among the men to whom it was addressed. One might have expected it to startle them; but it did not appear to do this,—at least, to any great extent. Some only showed those signs of fear distinguishable by blanched cheeks and white lips; but there were some too delirious to understand the full import of what was to follow; and the majority of the crew had become too callow with suffering to care much even for life!
Most that could, however,—for there were some too feeble to stand erect,—rose to their feet, and gathered around the challenger, exhibiting both in their words and attitudes, an earnestness that told them not altogether indifferent to death.
By a sort of tacit agreement among them, Le Gros acted as master of the ceremonies,—the dispenser of that dread lottery of life and death, in which he himself was to take a share. Two or three of his fellows stood on each side of him, acting as aids or croupiers.
Solemn and momentous as was the question to be decided, the mode of decision was simple in the extreme. Le Gros held in his hand a canvas bag, of oblong bolster shape,—such as sailors use to carry their spare suit of “Sunday go-ashores.” In the bottom of this bag,—already carefully counted into it,—were twenty-six buttons: the exact number of those who were to take part in the drawing. They were the common black buttons of horn,—each pierced with four holes,—such as may be seen upon the jacket of the merchant sailor. They had been cut from their own garments for the purpose in which they were now, a third time, to be employed, and all chosen so exactly alike, that even the eye would have found it difficult to distinguish one from the other. One, however, offered an exception to this statement. While all its fellows were jet black, it exhibited a reddish hue,—a dark crimson,—as if it had been defiled with blood. And so it had been; stained on purpose,—that for which it was to be employed,—to be the exponent of the prize, in that lottery of blood, of which its colour was an appropriate emblem.
The difference between it and the others was not perceptible to the touch. The fingers of a man born blind could not have distinguished it among the rest,—much less the callous and tar-bedaubed “claws” of a sailor.
The red button was cast into the bag along with the others. “He who should draw it forth must die.”
As we have said, there was no settling about preliminaries, no talking about choice as to the time of drawing. These matters had been discussed before, both openly and by secret mental calculations. All had arrived at the conclusion that the chances were even, and that it could make no difference in the event as to whose fate was first decided. The red button might be the last in the bag, or it might be the first drawn out of it.
Under this impression, no one hesitated to inaugurate the dread ceremony of the drawing; and as soon as Le Gros held out the bag,—just open enough to admit a hand,—a man stepped up, and, with an air of reckless indifference, plunged his arm into the opening!