THE MAN WHO TOOK WATER
momentary anger rose in my heart against old Webb, who had brought this thing to be. He told me afterwards that in that hour he repented, for this was so much worse than the shedding of blood that till then it seemed he had beheld nothing awful in his life.
But as we sat there, motionless, unable, the long bloodless duel went on. We saw their lips move now, but no words were spoken, and we guessed darkly at the silent thoughts they muttered. Did one's eye flicker, or was it only the flicker of a lamp? Did they murmur, or was it the breathing of the awe-struck crowd that watched at the door? Both of them sighed surely. Did one's hand move? Was that a shaking nerve? I looked again at old Webb, and saw that he had bitten his lip; a little trickle of blood ran down his smooth-shaved chin. His hand trembled surely; I felt it on my arm. If he, who had seen and done so much, and was only a spectator with so little at stake, felt this, what did those feel who had their very souls on the table, those who loved power and the fear of men? We saw one doomed: out of this only one
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