Francis Tredegar slowly eased the body down upon the level ground, and then gently drew his hand from under the head.
As he did so, he uttered a cry of horror.
“What is it?” demanded the doctor.
Francis held up the palm of his hand, which was crimson with clotted blood.
“Where did that come from?” asked the doctor.
“From the back of his head. Oh, he is quite dead, or must be soon! He is shot through the brain!” exclaimed Francis in great distress.
“Impossible!” cried the doctor.
“No, no, no!” exclaimed Prince Ernest, vehemently.
“I shall not shoot him through the brain! I shall not aim at his head at all! I shall aim at his right arm. I shall not wish to kill him, only to punish him! I shall aim at his right arm, but I shall shoot him through the right side! It shall be a chance, an accident, a misfortune. I meant it not—not I!”
While the Austrian was skipping and exclaiming, the surgeon was examining the back of Alexander’s head. The hair was matted with blood from a deep wound there.