the pipe—and the cold muzzle of a rifle, there between his fingers, thrilled him to the marrow.
He stood there, his hand in the pipe, his fingers about the cold muzzle, long; then with a jerk drew up the rifle. It fell across his outstretched arms, and he held it thus a moment, as a mother holds her child, his eyes examining it swiftly, passing with satisfaction over the thin, short barrel, the massive breech-lock, the stock, heavy with stored death. The magazine was full, a cartridge was in the breech—he knew that those who had climbed the wall and hidden it had been negligent of no such details. He took up the weapon in his hands now, right hand about small of stock, left hand a sliding crotch about the barrel—and suddenly he snapped up to his full height.
A terrific feeling of power had risen through him. Once, in this prison, he had been a man intent on obedience; months had changed him to a sullen suspicious convict; years had made of him a crouching, stalking beast; and now, at the touch of this rifle, he sprang up a monster.
