'What—who—what?' said a dozen voices.
'Murdered some ane—hang me if it isna Captain Elliot. Sharpe's a devilish gleed gunner, if ever there was ane.'
Hawkey Sharpe heard these excited exclamations as if in a dream, and as if heard by another and not himself.
He had unexpectedly seen Jack Elliot come, if not in his line of fire, unseen by others, within range of it; and though hitherto vaguely intent on mischief, a sudden, a devil-born impulse came like a flash of lightning over him.
He fired, and Jack Elliot dropped like a stone!
The moment he had done so the heart of Hawkey Sharpe seemed to stand still; enmity, rivalry, and affront were all forgotten—seemed never to have existed. There was a roaring or surging of the blood in his ears, while a sudden darkness seemed to fall upon the sunshiny landscape.
Was it accident or murder, he thought, and then felt keenly that
'Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ.'