So down go I on my hands and knees, and looking intently for some time—
"I can see," says I, "the marks of the mules' feet in the dust, but whether they are turned north or south I can't make out."
"Nor I, neither," says he; "but do you see anything besides?"
"I see a trace where the hoof-marks seem to be smudged out; as if something had been dragged along the ground towards the edge of the abyss."
"That's what I mean. Now what does that argify?" he asks, getting off his hands, squatting on his heels, and once more scratching his head.
I could make no reply, but still leaned over, trying to make out these marks.
"Good God!" exclaimed Matthew, all of a sudden, "what's this?"
Turning about hastily, I found him regarding a patch on the rock just in front of where he was kneeling. Looking closer, I saw that it was almost black, yet with a purple tinge. Matthew scraped it with his nail, and as it showed deep red below the surface he looks up into my face and says, dropping his voice almost to a whisper:
"Blood!"
Glancing round he scanned the rocky ledge behind him; then suddenly he points his finger without a word to another stain not a foot off; but this told its tale more clearly, for it formed a print of an open hand; as if a wounded man, after trying to stanch the blood from a wound, had been forced to clap that hand on the rock to save him from falling into the road below.