Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the clock; there were seven minutes left, that was all.

The hand moved on with incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.
What passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony cannot be told in words.

He was still comparatively young, he was surrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced himself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly plausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the world, even life itself.

To form the slightest idea of his feelings, one must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation and its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven.

The minute hand moved on.
The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and murmured his daughter's name.