Or in the battle, when hundreds rush to the attack with one man in front
like the edge before the knife--there would have been a death-scene for
Jerry Strann. Or while he rode singing, a bolt of lightning that slew
and obliterated at once--such would have been a death for Jerry Strann.
It was not possible that he could die like this, with a smile. There was
something incompleted. The fury of the death-struggle which had been
omitted must take place, and the full rage of wrath and destruction must
be vented. Can a bomb explode and make no sound and do no injury?
Yet Jerry Strann was dead and all the world lived on. Someone cantered
his horse down the street and called gayly to an acquaintance, and
afterwards the dust rose, invisible, and blew through the open window
and stung the nostrils of Mac Strann. A child cried, faintly, in the
distance, and then was hushed by the voice of the mother, making a
sound like a cackling hen. This was all!
There should have been wailing and weeping and cursing and praying, for
handsome Jerry Strann was dead. Or there might have been utter and
dreadful silence and waiting for the stroke of vengeance, for the
brightest eye was misted and the strongest hand was unnerved and the
voice that had made them tremble was gone.
But there was neither silence nor weeping. Someone in a nearby kitchen
rattled her pans and then cursed a dog away from her back-door. Not that
any of the sounds were loud.
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