"Because his heart no longer beats," said my great-uncle. "Quick! Catch her, Robert."
She lay like a tired child in my arms.
"Dead!" she murmured faintly.
"He can not be dead!" I exclaimed. "There's not a wound on him."
"Neen," said Peter.
He picked up the lanthorn from where I had dropped it on the deck and directed the light upon the upper part of Colonel O'Donnell's head. A blue bruise like a scar was spread across the Irishman's left temple.
"A graze-shot," pronounced Peter. "Der cannonball came dot close. Ja!"
"But the skin is not even broken," I objected.
"Ja, but dot don't matter."
Murray bent over and fingered the bruise.