But two buttons now remained,—two men only whose fate was undecided. One of them was Le Gros himself,—the other, an Irish sailor, who was, perhaps, the least wicked among that wicked crew. One or other of them must become food for their cannibal comrades!
It would scarce be true to say that the interest increased as the dread lottery progressed towards its ending. Its peculiar conditions had secured an interest from the first as intense as it was possible for it to be. It only became changed in character,—less selfish, if we may use the phrase,—as each individual escaped from the dangerous contingency involved in the operation. As the drawing approached its termination, the anxiety about the result, though less painful to the majority of the men, was far more so to the few whose fate still hung suspended in the scale; and this feeling became more intensified in the breasts of the still smaller number, who saw their chances of safety becoming constantly diminished. When, at length, only two buttons remained in the bag, and only two men to draw them out, the interest, though changed in character, was nevertheless sufficiently exciting to fix the attention of every individual on the raft.
There were circumstances, apart from the mere drawing, that influenced this attention. Fate itself seemed to be taking a part in the dread drama; or, if not, a very singular contingency had occurred.
Between the two men, thus left to decide its decree, there existed a rivalry,—or, rather, might it be called a positive antipathy,—deadly as any vendetta ever enacted on Corsican soil.
It had not sprung up on the raft. It was of older date—old as the earliest days of the Pandora’s voyage, on whose decks it had originated.
Its first seeds had been sown in that quarrel between Le Gros and Ben Brace,—in which the Frenchman had been so ignominiously defeated. The Irish sailor,—partly from some slight feeling of co-nationality, and partly from a natural instinct of fair-play,—had taken sides with the British tar; and, as a consequence, had invoked the hostility of the Frenchman. This feeling he had reciprocated to its full extent; and from that time forward Larry O’Gorman—such was the Irishman’s name—became the true bête noir of Le Gros, to be insulted by the latter on every occasion that might offer. Even Ben Brace was no longer regarded with as much dislike. For him the Frenchman had been taught, if not friendship, at least, a certain respect, springing from fear; and, instead of continuing his jealous rivalry towards the English sailor, Le Gros had resigned himself to occupy a secondary place on the slaver, and transferred his spite to the representative of the Emerald Isle.
More than once, slight collisions had occurred between them,—in which the Frenchman, gifted with greater cunning, had managed to come off victorious. But there had never arisen any serious matter to test the strength of the two men to that desperate strife, of which death might be the ending. They had generally fought shy of each other; the Frenchman from a latent fear of his adversary,—founded, perhaps, on some suspicion of powers not yet exhibited by him, and which might be developed in a deadly struggle,—the Irishman from a habitude, not very common among his countrymen, of being little addicted to quarrelling. He was, on the contrary, a man of peaceful disposition, and of few words,—also a rare circumstance, considering that his name was Larry O’Gorman.
There were some good traits in the Irishman’s character. Perhaps we have given the best. In comparison with the Frenchman, he might be described as an angel; and, compared with the other wretches on the raft, he was, perhaps, the least bad: for the word best could not, with propriety, be applied to anyone of that motley crew.
Personally, the two men were unlike as could well be. While the Frenchman was black and bearded, the Irishman was red and almost beardless. In size, however, they approximated nearer to each other,—both being men of large stature. Both had been stout,—almost corpulent.
Neither could be so described as they assisted at that solemn ceremonial that was to devote one or other of them to a doom—in which their condition was a circumstance of significant interest to those who were to survive them.