All the countless centuries of human development that had left their impression on that body, to make it into the glorious image of a Godlike human being, withered away during that time of agony, leaving only a chaotic collection of limbs writhing and strange visions racing over his convulsing features.
The sight was fearsome even to the callous men that surrounded him. Even their hardened souls saw a vision of a strange life just then, an unknown and unexpected phantom that comes to some once in their lives and that never comes to many, the phantom of a human soul stripped naked of the covering of civilization, lying naked and horror-stricken, without help, without hope of mercy. They forgot for the moment their hatred of him. They forgot that this helpless, shapeless mass of humanity was a menace to their lives. They forgot that he was a viper they must crush. They only knew at that moment, that he was a poor, weak human being like themselves, a human soul, weak and helpless in suffering, shivering in the toils of the eternal struggle of the human soul with pain.
Their mouths opened wide. Their eyes grew soft. Some made unconscious movements with their hands, others with their feet, unconscious movements of which their minds were not aware. For their minds, disciplined by the corroding influence of hatred, sat still and indifferent.
One man alone revelled in Gypo’s agony. He revelled in it unconsciously. He was no longer conscious of his emotions. He had become demented, drunk with the fury of his hatred. That man was Gallagher.
He rose lightly from the table, without a word, pawing the table softly with his hands for support, like a panther finding foothold for a spring. His lean, glossy, sallow face was lit with a glow of passionate eagerness, like a lover approaching his beloved. But it was not the pure, resplendent eagerness of love. It was the eagerness of the preying beast about to spring. The lips laughed, thin, wrinkled, red lips drawn upwards and downwards from the set, white teeth. The eyes glittered. The forehead twitched. The hands trembled. The whole body shivered slightly, with those minute shivers that pass down the side of a setter when he stands poised over his prey. He rose gradually from the table. He stepped over his chair with his right foot, to avoid moving the chair. He released his body from contact with the table and the chair. His eyes were fixed on Gypo’s face. He stood crouching. His head was swung forward, almost on a level with his stooping shoulders. He groped with his right hand on the table for his pistol. His fingers found the butt. Slowly they embraced it. The forefinger sought the trigger and found it. He lifted the pistol from the table. He brought it with a sharp movement to his hip. Its muzzle pointed at Gypo’s chest. He took one short pace forward.
Gypo uttered a sharp yell and put his two hands to his face, shielding his eyes. But he took them away again almost immediately. They dropped to his sides. He must look at Gallagher’s eyes. He could not remain hidden from those eyes. They burned into his flesh unless he looked at them with his own.
Gallagher spoke. His voice was almost inaudible. It was soft and sweet like a girl’s voice.
“As you seem to have lost your voice,” he whispered, “I had better tell you myself who that man was. There’s no need to describe him for the court. The court can see the man for themselves. I’m going to tell the court the very name of the informer that betrayed his comrade, Francis Joseph McPhillip, I’m going to point out the informer with my own hand. That is the man,” he cried suddenly, with terrific force, turning to the judges and pointing his pistol at Gypo. “Comrades, the informer is Gypo Nolan, who is sitting there on that form.”
He had scarcely finished when Gypo uttered a muffled scream like a dumb animal in mortal agony. He tumbled forward to the stone floor. He frothed at the mouth. He reached out his trembling hands towards Gallagher.
“Commandant,” he cried, “I didn’t know what I was doin’. I declare to God I didn’t know what I was doin’. Can’t ye see what I mane?” He raised his voice to a scream and he kept dragging himself forward over the floor towards Gallagher’s feet. Then he struggled to his hands and knees. He stretched out his hands on either side, panting: “Is there no man here to tell him why I did it? I can’t tell him. My head is sore. I can’t tell him. Commandant, Commandant, you an’ me, Commandant. We’ll make a plan, the two of us … uh-r-r-r. …”
His voice sank into an inarticulate jabber as his hands clutched Gallagher’s boots and he sank again prone to the ground. His thick lips that tried to kiss Gallagher’s boots were imprinting kisses on the stone flags. Gallagher kicked away the clutching hands and called out sharply:
“Take him to the cell and place him under close guard.”
Immediately the four armed men rushed forward and bent down to seize Gypo. But as soon as they touched him, he stiffened. He
