The boy's lids drooped and closed.
Presently his breast rose and fell to the deep breaths of slumber.
The time had come!
The Russian crept stealthily nearer. A branch rustled beneath
his weight and the lad stirred in his sleep. Paulvitch drew his
revolver and levelled it upon the black. For a moment he remained
in rigid quiet, and then again the youth relapsed into undisturbed
slumber.
The white man crept closer. He could not chance a shot until there
was no risk of missing. Presently he leaned close above the Mosula.
The cold steel of the revolver in his hand insinuated itself nearer
and nearer to the breast of the unconscious lad. Now it stopped
but a few inches above the strongly beating heart.
But the pressure of a finger lay between the harmless boy and
eternity. The soft bloom of youth still lay upon the brown cheek,
a smile half parted the beardless lips. Did any qualm of conscience
point its disquieting finger of reproach at the murderer?
To all such was Alexander Paulvitch immune. A sneer curled
his bearded lip as his forefinger closed upon the trigger of his
revolver. There was a loud report. A little hole appeared above
the heart of the sleeping boy, a little hole about which lay a
blackened rim of powder-burned flesh.
The youthful body half rose to a sitting posture.
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