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He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life.

How high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he

would be stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching

hands would be dyed red, which way his face would be turned,

whether he would be the first, or might be the last: these and

many similar questions, in nowise directed by his will, obtruded

themselves over and over again, countless times. Neither were

they connected with fear: he was conscious of no fear. Rather,

they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do

when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the

few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more

like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.