“Why, the bear’s dead!” he cried.
“Of course it is,” said the captain, laughing. “We should not be standing here if it were not.”
“But I mean dead before Mr Handscombe fired!”
“What!” cried the doctor, flushing red, while the captain went down on one knee to raise a paw.
“Yes,” he cried, “and frozen stiff. It must have been dead for many hours, eh, Johannes?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, kneeling down to part the fur, “many hours. Yes, here it is! Look! in the chest. The walrus got his tusk well home.”
“Eh? What?” cried the captain, as the Norseman pointed to a great gaping wound; from which the blood had been washed by the sea. The wound was in the upper part of the animal’s chest, in a position where a dagger-like stroke would penetrate to the heart; and the bear had evidently swum for some distance, crawled there, and, after drawing itself up, quietly died.
“But I don’t quite understand,” said the captain.
“It is the walrus we saw tumble the bear off the cliff into the sea yesterday.”
“What!” cried the doctor excitedly. “Then I did not kill it?”