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Updated: May 6, 2025
Axtell took it into his hands, turned it to the light, and read on it the name of my sister. I said to him, "Look on the inside." He did. It was the fatal cup from which Mary Percival drank the death-drops. Poisonous crystals lay in its depth. I told him so. I told him how Bernard McKey, driven to despair, had made the fatal mistake. I thought to have seen the sunlight of joy go up his face.
For several moments no one spoke, nor moved, nor listened carefully; but the fall of the poor lieutenant's death-drops, like the ticking of a clock, went on. Until an old tar, who had seen a sight of battles, crooked his legs across a thwart, and propped up the limp head upon his doubled knee.
Alas! how many of them were now dreaming their last earthly dream; how many on the morrow would lie with gaping wounds upon a bloody battle ground, with staring glassy eyes turned upward, and no one near to wipe the death-drops from their brows! They know not, they care not, they are lost in sleep.
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