Something thudded heavily upon the grass and lay there, mute and rigid, while Beltane, leaning upon his sword, stared down at that fell shape, and breathing the noxious reek of it, was seized of trembling horror; nevertheless he stooped, and reaching out a hand of loathing in the dimness, found the cord whereby it had swung and dragged the rigid, weighty thing out into the radiance of the moon until he could see a pallid face twisted and distorted by sharp and cruel death. Now in this moment Roger sware a fierce, great oath, and forthwith kicked those stiffened limbs.
"Ha!" cried he, "methought 'twas Tostig his ghost come for to drag us down into yon accursed pool—and 'tis naught but the traitor-rogue Gurth!"
"And dead, Roger!"
"Forsooth, he's dead enough, master—faugh!"
"And it availeth nothing to kick a dead man, Roger."
"Yet was he an arrant knave, master."
"And hath paid for his knavery, methinks!"
"A very rogue! a traitor! a rogue of rogues, master!"
"Then hath he the more need of our prayers, Roger."
"Prayers! How, lord, would'st pray for—this?"