“This’ll do,” he said, nodding to a circular patch of smooth grayish mud which lay just in front of them.
Hal looked at it and at the white face of the Spaniard; then he shuddered.
“It’s horrible,” he said.
Joe grunted.
“Give us them weights, lad,” he demanded, holding out his hand.
Hal slung them over.
Hastily, and with perfect calmness, Joe tied them to the Spaniard’s feet. He had to bend nearly double to do this, as to kneel with the boards on was impossible, and he straightened his back with some relief on finishing.
“That’s enough; now in with him,” he said briskly, wiping his hands on his jersey. Then his eyes fell on the silver buttons on the black velvet coat and the rings on the white hands, and he pulled out his knife.
“’Twould be a pity to leave him these,” he said practically, bending down again.
“Let be, Joe Pullen,” Hal’s voice rang out clear over the wind-swept flats. “We’ll have naught of his. Let the devil keep his own.” He drew from his belt the thin two-edged knife, now brown and clotted with dry blood, round which was still the flower-ring, and threw it into the centre of the gray circle. It sank almost immediately.