"And you?"
Again that look of ingenuous surprise.
"I don't remember about myself," he said. "I was thinking too much about her. I never saw anyone killed before."
"Killed? Why do you say killed? You say you saw her fall, but how did you know she was killed?"
"I saw the arrow in her breast. As she fell backward, I saw the arrow."
As he uttered these words, the three men watching him perceived the sweat start out on his forehead, and his eyes take on a glassy stare. It was as if he were again in gaze upon that image of youthful loveliness falling to the ground with the arrow of death in her heart. The effect was strangely moving. To see this event reflected as it were in horror from this man's consciousness made it appear more real and much more impressive than when contemplated directly. Why? Had remorse given it its poignancy? Had it been his own hand which had directed this arrow from behind the pedestal? If not, why this ghastly display of an emotion so far beyond what might be expected from the most sentimental of onlookers?
In an endeavor to clear the situation, the Coroner intervened with the following question:
"Have you ever seen a shot made by a bow and arrow before, Mr. Travis? Archery-practice, I mean. Or—well, the shooting of wild animals in India, Africa or elsewhere?"
"Oh, yes. I come from a country where the bow and arrow are used. But I never shoot. I can only speak of what I have seen others do."
"That is sufficient. You ought to be able to tell, then, from what direction this arrow came."