George looked up in some wonder. Robinson pointed sternly to the dead hand in silence. George, by the light of the other men's faces, saw it all, and recoiled with a natural movement of repugnance as from a dead snake. There was a breathless silence—and every eye bent upon this terrible enemy lying terrible no longer at their feet.
“How did he die?” asked Robinson, in a whisper.
“In the great snow-storm,” replied George, in a whisper.
“No,” said Jem, in the same tone, “he was alive yesterday. I saw his footprint after the snow was melted.”
“There was snow again last night, Tom. Perhaps he went to sleep in that with his belly empty.”
“Starvation and fatigue would do it without the snow, George. We brought a day's provisions out with us, George. He never thought of that, I will be bound.”
“Not he,” said Jem. “I'll answer for him he only thought of robbing and killing—never thought about dying himself.”
“I can't believe he is dead so easy as this,” said Robinson.
The feeling was natural. This man had come into the wood and had followed them burning to work them ill, and they to work him ill. Both were utterly baffled. He had never prevailed to hurt them, nor they him. He was dead, but by no mortal hand. The immediate cause of his death was unknown, and will never be known for certain while the world lasts.
L'homme propose, mais Dieu dispose!