And in the night, two miles afield, one that ran with streaming face and labouring chest and that muttered "I done it on 'im—me, served like a dog before 'em all—I done it on him, the tyrang!"
V
Percival was changing his dripping clothes. Complete exhaustion had him. The bruises on his face had hardened to ugly colours, and Japhra, chiding him for having left the van, saw with concern an uglier colour yet that burned behind the bruises and whose cause made his wet body burning to the touch.
"Bed for thee!—no changing!" he said; and was answered by Percival: "Japhra! I saw him pitch and drop!"
"I have helped bear him to his van.... I saw him struck."
There had never left Percival's mind him that went thrusting past in the press, right hand in pocket. His eyes questioned Japhra and were answered by Japhra's. Then he said, "Egbert Hunt?"
"Egbert Hunt."
"What's going to happen now, Japhra?"
Strange how tricks and chances go! All that day's chain of tricks, all its train of chances, had brought Percival straight to the import of Japhra's words.
"This night hath ended this life, master. Stingo sells his stock and back to his brother near thy home. To-morrow, new roads for me."