A great, shuddering cry broke from them both; his head sank as
though the bullet had already pierced his breast, and the man who
believed him dead stood gazing at him, paralyzed with horror.
For a moment there was an awful silence. Then the Seraph's voice rang
out with a terror in it that thrilled through the careless, callous
hearts of the watching soldiery.
"Who is that man? He died--he died so long ago! And yet----"
Cecil's head was sunk on his chest; he never spoke, he never moved; he
knew the helpless, hopeless misery that waited for the one who found
him living only to find him also standing before his open grave. He
saw nothing; he only felt the crushing force of his friend's arms flung
round him, as though seizing him to learn whether he were a living man
or a spector dreamed of in delirium.
"Who are you? Answer me, for pity's sake!"
As the swift, hoarse, incredulous words poured on his ear, he, not
seeking to unloose the other's hold, lifted his head and looked full
in the eyes that had not met his own for twelve long years. In that one
look all was uttered; the strained, eager, doubting eyes that read their
answer in it needed no other.
"You live still! Oh! thank God--thank God!"
And as the thanksgiving escaped him, he forgot all save the breathless
joy of this resurrection; forgot that at their feet the yawning grave
was open and unfilled. Then, and only then, under that recognition of
the friendship that had never failed and never doubted, the courage
of the condemned gave way, and his limbs shook with a great shiver of
intolerable torture; and at the look that came upon his face, the
look of death, brute-like anguish, the man who loved him remembered
all--remembered that he stood there in the morning light only to be
shot down like a beast of prey.
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