Leaning back on his hands, the man he had killed at his feet, those instant questions which oppress us all in the rare moments when we stand still and are compelled by the shock of circumstance to look inward on ourselves, drummed at his brain.
What was he?—where was he?—why was he?
He staggered to his feet, pressing his hands to his eyes, to try to recollect his meaning.
He failed, only recalling his mission of the moment.
Shutting his eyes, he grasped the dirk.
"Awful sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "I must," and plucked it forth with a shudder.
Then he looked up.
The first Grenadier lay spread-eagled on the slope above him.
Blob was crawling out from beneath him, his pink muzzle thrust up with an air of grave and innocent amazement.
Kit pointed a finger.