'By your orders, my lord?'
'By my orders. Can you suggest a better use to make of a dead man?'
'No, my lord, but a better manner of burial.'
'Dismount and see for yourself.'
Rallywood swung off the saddle, and giving his horse to one of the foresters stooped and threw back the covering from the dead man's face and breast. His dead fierce eyes stared upward, his wet hair was already frozen to his brow, and a black wound gaped open at his throat. Rallywood gazed at the harsh features, which, but for their livid colour, were little altered by death. The tsa moaned across the river and a few large flakes of snow came floating down.
'Are you satisfied now?'
Rallywood stood up and faced the Count.
'How did he die?'
'You can see that. Suicide as plain as a knife can write it.'
'I do not think so,' said Rallywood slowly.