But Laurie lurched blindly forward, paying no heed. He seemed to thrust himself upon the blade. The breast of his white clothes reddened vividly. He dropped the bottle, stood trembling and rocking for an instant, and fell with a crash upon his back. The knife stood half-buried between his ribs. He quivered a little and lay still.
There was an appalled silence. Every man held his breath, gazing at the prostrate white figure. No one had been prepared for this.
“I never meant to do it!” murmured Carlton, in an awestruck whisper. “He ran on the blade.”
“See if he’s dead,” said Elliott, feeling very sick. Sevier knelt beside the body and lifted a wrist.
“He’s done for, I’m afraid,” he said, turning a pale face back to them.
“Here, let me up,” Elliott demanded. “Let me see him.”
They cut him loose, and Elliott examined the body. The missionary’s work was done. He was dead; the knife must have touched the heart.
“This is a bad business for us all,” muttered Sevier. “What’ll we do with him?”
“Whatever possessed him to break out like that? It was self-defence. He ran right on the point,” Carlton said, still half under his breath.
“Yes; but how’ll we prove it?” Sevier rejoined.