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<h3>Chapter Sixty Nine.</h3> <h4>A Challenge declined.</h4> When it came to the last drawing,—for there needed to be only one more,—there was a pause in the proceedings, such as usually precedes an expected climax. It was accompanied by silence; so profound that, but for the noise made by the waves as they dashed against the hollow hogsheads, a pin might have been heard if dropped upon the planking of the raft. In the sound of the sea there was something lugubrious: a fit accompaniment of the unhallowed scene that was being enacted by those within hearing of it. One might have fancied that spirits in fearful pain were confined within the empty casks, and that the sounds that seemed to issue out of them were groans elicited by their agony. The two men, one of whom was doomed to die, stood face to face; the others forming a sort of circle around them. All eyes were bent upon them, while theirs were fixed only upon each other. The reciprocated glance was one of dire hostility and hate,—combined with a hope on the part of each to see the other dead, and then to survive him. Both were inspired by a belief—in the presence of such an unexpected contingency it was not unreasonable—that Fate had singled them out from their fellows to stand in that strange antagonism. They were, in fact, convinced of it. Under the influence of this conviction, it might be supposed that neither would offer any further opposition to Fate’s decree, but would yield to what might appear their “manifest destiny.” As it was, however, fatalism was not the faith of either. Though neither of them could lay claim to the character of a Christian, they were equally unbelievers in this particular article of the creed of Mahomet; and both were imbued with a stronger belief in strength or stratagem than in chance. On the first-mentioned the Irishman appeared most to rely, as was evidenced by the proposal he made upon the occasion. “I dar yez,” said he, “to thry which is the best man. To dhraw them buttons is an even chance between us; an’ maybe the best man is him that’ll have to die. By Saint Pathrick! that isn’t fair, nohow. The best man should be allowed to live. Phwat do yez say, comrades?” The proposal, though unexpected by all, found partisans who entertained it. It put a new face upon the affair. It was one that was not more than reasonable. The crew, no longer interested in the matter,—at least, so far as their own personal safety was concerned,—could now contemplate the result with calmness; and the instinct of justice was not dead within the hearts of all of them. In the challenge of the Irishman there appeared nothing unfair. A number of them were inclined to entertain it, and declared themselves of that view. The partisans of Le Gros were the more numerous; and these remained silent,—waiting until the latter should make reply to the proposal of his antagonist. After the slight luck he had already experienced in the lottery,—combined with several partial defeats erst inflicted upon the man who thus challenged him,—it might have been expected that Le Gros would have gladly accepted the challenge. He did not. On the contrary, he showed such an inclination to trust to chance that a close observer of his looks and actions might have seen cause to suspect that he had also some reliance upon stratagem. No one, however, had been thus closely observing him. No one—except the individual immediately concerned—had noticed that quick grasp of hands between him and one of his partisans; or, if they had, it was only to interpret it as a salute of sympathy, extended towards a comrade in a situation of danger. In that salute, however, there passed between the two men something of significance; which, if exhibited to the eyes of the spectators, would have explained the indifference to death that from that moment characterised the demeanour of Le Gros. After that furtive movement, he no longer showed any hesitancy as to his course of action; but at once declared his willingness, as well as his determination, to abide by the decision of the drawing. “Sacré!” cried he, in answer to the challenge of the Irishman; “you don’t suppose, Monsieur Irlandais, that I should fear the result as you propose it? Parbleu! nobody will believe that. But I’m a believer in Fortune,—notwithstanding the scurvy tricks she has often served me—even now that she is frowning upon me black as ever. Neither of us appears to be in favour with her, and that will make our chances equal. So then, I say, let us try her again. Sacré! it will be the last time she can frown on one of us,—that’s certain.” As O’Gorman had no right to alter the original programme of the lottery, of course the dissenting voices to its continuance were in the minority; and the general clamour tailed upon fate to decide which of the two men was to become food for their famishing companions. Le Gros still held the bag containing the two buttons. One of them should be black, the other red. It became a subject of dispute, which was to make the draw. It was not a question of who should draw first, since one button taken out would be sufficient. If the red one came out, the drawer must die; if the black, then the other must become the victim. Some proposed that a third party should hold the bag, and that there should be a toss up for the first chance. Le Gros showed a disposition to oppose this plan. He said that, as he had been intrusted with the superintendence so far, he should continue it to the end. They all saw,—so urged he,—that he had not benefited by the office imposed upon him; but the contrary. It had brought nothing but ill-luck to him; and, as everybody knew, when a run of ill-luck once sets in, there was no knowing where it might terminate. He did not care much, one way or the other: since there could be no advantage in his holding the bag; but as he had done so all through,—as he believed to his disadvantage,—he was willing to hold on, even if it was death that was to be his award. The speech of Le Gros had the desired effect. The majority declared themselves in favour of his continuing to hold the bag; and it was decided that the Irishman should make choice of the penultimate button. The latter offered no opposition to this arrangement. There appeared no valid grounds for objecting to it. It was a simple toss of heads and tails,—“Heads I win, and tails you lose”; or, to make use of a formula more appropriate to the occasion, “Heads I live, and tails you die.” With some such process of reasoning current through the brain of Larry O’Gorman, he stepped boldly up to the bag; plunged his fist into its obscure interior; and drew forth—the black button! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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