"Why should I not do it?" His heart seemed to stop beating. Then once
more, and deliberately this time, he put the revolver to his brow and
pulled the trigger, His blood ran cold; there was a buzzing in his ears
and the room seemed to whirl round.
The weapon did not go off; only the click of the trigger could be
heard. Half fainting, his hand dropped to his side. Every fibre within
him quivered, his head swam, his lips were parched, and his hand
trembled so much that when he laid down the revolver it rattled against
the table.
"A fine fellow I am!" he thought as, recovering himself, he went to the
glass to see what he looked like.
"Then I'm a coward, am I?" "No," he thought proudly, "I am not! I did
it right enough. How could I help it if the thing didn't go off?"
His own vision looked out at him from the mirror; rather a solemn,
grave one, he thought. Trying to persuade himself that he attached no
importance to what he had just done, he put out his tongue and moved
away from the glass.
"Fate would not have it so," he said aloud, and the sound of the words
seemed to cheer him.
"I wonder if anyone saw me?" he thought, as he looked round in alarm.
Yet all was still, and nothing could be heard moving behind the closed
door. To him it was as if nothing in the world existed and suffered in
this terrible solitude but himself. He put out the lamp, and to his
amazement perceived through a chink in the shutter the first red rays
of dawn. Then he lay down to sleep, and in dream was aware of something
gigantic that bent over him, exhaling fiery breath.