He had seen courage, but never like this, and deep down in his soul he prayed--prayed that death might come to him first, so that he might not have to look upon the agonies of this other, whose end would be ghastly in its fearless resignation.

His own suffering had become excruciating.

Sharp pains darted like red-hot needles through his limbs, his back tortured him, and his head ached as though a knife had cloven the base of his skull.
Still--he could breathe.

By pressing his head against the post it was not difficult for him to fill his lungs with air.

But the strength of his limbs was leaving him.