If he were to stop now, it might be hours before he could go on again,
and then he would be already weakened by hunger. There was nothing to
be done but to keep at it, to strike and strike, with such half-
frantic energy as was left in him. Every bone and sinew ached, and his
breath came short, while the sweat ran down into his short beard, and
fell in rain on his dusty hands.
But do what he would, the blows followed each other in slower
succession. He could not strike twenty more, not ten, not five
perhaps; he would not count them; he would cheat himself into doing
what could not be done; he would count backwards and forwards, one,
two, three, three, two, one, one, two--
And then, all at once, the tired sinews were braced like steel, and
his back straightened, and his breath came full and clear. The blow
had rung hollow.
He could have yelled as he sent the great bar flying against the
bricks again and again, far in the shadow, and the echo rang back,
louder and louder, every time.
The bar ran through and the end he held shot from his hands, as the
resistance failed at last, and half the iron went out on the other
side. He drew it back quickly and looked to see if there were any
light, but there was none. He did not care, for the rest would be
child's play compared with what he had done, and easier than play now
that he had the certainty of safety.
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