The weapon came out of its holster unconsciously, but as I felt
my finger rest in the curve of the trigger, I knew that some numbed
and exhausted corner of my brain had prompted me to do this thing;
indeed, as I weighed the matter with what coolness I could bring to
bear, it did not seem particularly wicked. With the pistol in my hand
and with the safety released, I believed that the rest would have been
easy and even pleasant. What did I have in my favour? What prospect
did I have of escaping the jungle? None whatever--none!
There was no shadow of hope for me, and I had long ago given up
believing in miracles. For eight days I had scarcely had a mouthful to
eat, excepting the broiled monkey at _tambo_ No. 7, shot by the young
Indian. The fever had me completely in its grasp. I was left alone
more than one hundred miles from human beings in absolute wilderness. I
measured cynically the tenaciousness of life, measured the thread that
yet held me among the number of the living, and I realised now what the
fight between life and death meant to a man brought to bay. I had not
the slightest doubt in my mind that this was the last of me. Surely,
no man could have been brought lower or to greater extremity and live;
no man ever faced a more hopeless proposition.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165