"The custom-house," whispered Tchelkache.
From the moment that he had ordered Gavrilo to row slowly, the lad had
again experienced a feeling of feverish expectation. He leaned
forward, toward the darkness and it seemed to him that he was growing
larger; his bones and veins stretched painfully; his head, filled with
one thought, ached; the skin on his back shivered and in his legs were
pricking sensations as though small sharp, cold needles were being
thrust into them. His eyes smarted from having gazed too long into the
darkness out of which he expected to see someone rise up and cry out:
"Stop thieves!"
When Tchelkache murmured: "the custom-house!" Gavrilo started: he was
consumed by a sharp, burning thought; his nerves were wrought up to the
highest pitch; he wanted to cry out, to call for help, he had already
opened his mouth and straightened himself up on the seat. He thrust
forward his chest, drew a long breath, and again opened his mouth; but
suddenly, overcome by sharp fear, he closed his eyes and fell from his
seat.
Ahead of the boat, far off on the horizon, an immense, flaming blue
sword sprang up from the black water.
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