“Hugh Kershaw flung up his arms, wildly.”
Ernest staggered a moment from the reaction, and then ran with the others towards his cousin—nay, towards what had been his cousin. He was lying on his back upon the sand, his wide-opened eyes staring up at the blue sky, as though to trace the flight of the spirit, his arms extended. The heavy revolver-ball had struck near the crystal pin, and then passed upwards through the throat and out at the base of the head, shattering the spinal column.
“He is dead,” said Captain Justice, solemnly.
Ernest wrung his hands.
“I have killed him,” he said—“I have killed my own cousin!”
“Young man,” said Mr. Alston, “do not stand there wringing your hands, but thank Providence for your own escape. He was very near killing you, let me tell you. Is your head cut?”
Instinctively Ernest took off his hat, and as he did so some fragments of his curly hair fell to the ground. There was a neat hole through the felt, and a neat groove along his thick hair. His cousin had meant to kill him; and he was a good shot—so good that he thought that he could put a ball through Ernest’s head. But he forgot that a heavy American revolver, with forty grains of powder behind the ball, is apt to throw a trifle high.
And then they all stood silent and looked at the body; and the lark, that had been frightened by the noise, began to sing again.
“This will not do,” said Mr. Alston presently. “We had better move the body in there,” and he pointed to the deserted hut. “Captain Justice, what do you intend to do?”
“Give myself up to the authorities, I suppose,” was the gallant Captain’s scared answer.