I suffer it afresh as I write.

There are the cobwebs on the ceiling, a bloated spider crawling in one: a worse monster is gloating over me: those dull eyes of his, and my own pistol-barrel, cover me in the lamp-light.

The crucifix pin is awry in his cravat; that is because he has offered it me to kiss.

As a refinement (I feel sure) my revolver is not cocked; and the hammer goes up--up-- He missed me because a lantern was flashed into his eyes through the grating.

He wasted the next ball in firing wildly at the light.