There is a singular variableness in the mind of a crowd, susceptible alike to good or evil impressions. At the heart-piercing cry of Gabriel, all these people, who, a moment before, had demanded, with loud uproar, the massacre of this man, felt touched with a sudden pity. The words: “He is dead!” circulated in low whispers through the crowd accompanied by a slight shudder, whilst Gabriel raised with one hand the victim’s heavy head, and with the other sought to feel if the pulse still beat beneath the ice-cold skin.
“Mr. Curate,” said the quarryman, bending towards Gabriel, “is there really no hope?”
The answer was waited for with anxiety, in the midst of deep silence. The people hardly ventured to exchange a few words in whispers.
[Original]
“Blessed be God!” exclaimed Gabriel, suddenly. “His heart beats.”
“His heart beats,” repeated the quarryman, turning his head towards the crowd, to inform them of the good news.
“Oh! his heart beats!” repeated the others, in whispers.
“There is hope. We may yet save him,” added Gabriel with an expression of indescribable happiness.
“We may yet save him,” repeated the quarryman, mechanically.