'Tell me,' I cried, 'he isn't dead, is he?'
'He is out of pain, at all events,' and Colonel McClure spoke abruptly.
Unmindful of what they might say, I went close to Edgecumbe, and gazed at him steadily. As far as I could judge, there was no sign of life.
'Have—have you done anything for him?' I said, turning to the doctors.
But neither of them spoke. They might have been waiting for something.
I noticed that Edgecumbe's hands were lying on the coverlet almost easily and naturally. Why I should have done it, I cannot tell, but I seized the lamp and held it close to them. They did not look like the hands of a dead man. In spite of everything, there was a suggestion of nervous energy in the long, capable-looking fingers. Then I put down the lamp, and took one of the hands in mine.
'He is alive,' I said; 'the right hand is warm, and it is not rigid.'
Still the doctors did not speak, but each looked at the other as if questioningly. They did not appear to resent my action; perhaps they made allowances for my anxiety; both of them knew how dear he was to me.
Then something struck me. I saw that one of his hands, although both were browned by exposure and hardened by labour, was different in colour from the other.
'Have you noticed that?' I said.
'Noticed what?'