He
gritted his teeth with superlative determination and flung back the
dreadful faintness seeking to smother his powers.
He raised himself to a sitting posture. He sought support from the
wall behind him. Then, with unbroken nerve, he raised both Sikkem's
guns, one in each hand. Without a tremor he held them, and his aim
took in the two points at which he felt the remaining foe were
advancing upon him. Oh, for one moment of light wherein to assure
himself! But the thought passed as it came, followed by a wild, simple
hope that one of his shots might find its billet.
He pressed the trigger in each hand. He fired rapidly. He fired until
both guns were empty. Then he flung them to the ground with a clatter.
For an instant he thrilled at the sound of a cry of pain, and the
fierce accompanying blasphemy. Then he flung himself down and crawled
to his retreat behind the palliasse, convinced that the cry was in the
voice of Sikkem Bruce.
His sufferings were well-nigh unendurable. His very breathing caused
him an exquisite pain.
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