“Begad,” he said, “where did you get it?” He rose.
Gaston understood that he saw the resemblance to Sir Gaston Belward.
“Before you were, I am. I am nearer the real stuff.”
The other measured his words insolently:
“But the Pocahontas soils the stream—that’s plain.”
A moment after Gaston was beside the prostrate body of his uncle, feeling his heart.
“Good God,” he said, “I didn’t think I hit so hard!” He felt the pulse, looked at the livid face, then caught open the waistcoat and put his ear to the chest. He did it all coolly, though swiftly—he was’ born for action and incident. And during that moment of suspense he thought of a hundred things, chiefly that, for the sake of the family—the family!—he must not go to trial. There were easier ways.
But presently he found that the heart beat.
“Good! good!” he said, undid the collar, got some water, and rang a bell. Falby came. Gaston ordered some brandy, and asked for Sir William. After the brandy had been given, consciousness returned. Gaston lifted him up.
He presently swallowed more brandy, and while yet his head was at Gaston’s shoulder, said: