CHAPTER XXXVII.
There are those who say that the pain is nothing, that I shall hardly suffer at all, that science has made death very easy.
What then is this six weeks’ torment that I have suffered, and this death agony for a whole day? What will be said of this day that goes so slowly, and yet too quickly? What is this ladder of torture that leads to the scaffold?
Perhaps they do not call this suffering.
Are not there the same convulsions when the blood oozes out drop by drop, and the intellect weakens as each thought grows less coherent?
And so there is no suffering. Are they sure? Who has told them so? Has there ever been an instance of a severed head which has risen bleeding to the edge of the basket, and has cried to the populace, “It has not hurt me a bit!”
Have any dead returned to thank the inventor, and to say, “It is a splendid invention, the mechanism is good. Stick to it?”
No, nothing of the kind—in a minute, in a second the thing is done. Have they ever, even in thought, put themselves in the place of the criminal, when the heavy knife falls, bites into the flesh, grinds through the nerves and shivers the vertebræ? But all pain is over in half a second. Horror!