Jose would have met
a bullet, a knife, a lash, without flinching; flames would not
have served to weaken his resolve; but this slow drowning was
infinitely worse than the worst he had thought possible; he was
suffocating by long, black, agonizing minutes. Every nerve and
muscle of his body, every cell in his bursting lungs, fought
against the outrage in a purely physical frenzy over which his
will power had no control. Nor would insensibility come to his
relief--Law watched him too carefully for that. He could not even
voice his sufferings by shrieks; he could only writhe and retch
and gurgle while the ropes bit into his flesh and his captor knelt
upon him like a monstrous stone weight.
But Jose had made a better fight than he knew. The canteen ran dry
at last, and Law was forced to release his hold.
"Will you speak?" he demanded.
Thinking that he had come safely through the ordeal, Jose shook
his head; he rolled his bulging, bloodshot eyes and vomited, then
managed to call God to witness his innocence.
Dave went into the next room and refilled the canteen. When he
reappeared with the dripping vessel in his hand, Jose tried to
scream.
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