He lay as he had fallen, awaiting the shock of bullet, the roar of the guard’s rifle. But he did not move. He could not believe that he had not been seen. A moment passed. A desire to draw up his legs possessed him; he knew that they must be out, distinct, in the light. But he did not move. He lay like a stone. His face was in the earth; he could taste mud upon his lips; his feet felt cold as though he were beneath a blanket and they were sticking out; he imagined them enormously visible. But he did not move.
A minute passed, a century. But there was no shock of bullet, no roar of rifle. Finally, he turned his head.
He turned it slowly, smoothly, until he could look at right angles to his body, then with infinite precautions, in imperceptible progressions, he bent it till the line of vision had passed his shoulder. But still he could see nothing. Something opaque and enormous barred his way; an immense pillar. It was barred. It was his arm.
