“Surely Charl Clancy!” exclaims the mulatto as soon as setting eyes on the face. “Dead—shot—murdered!”
For a time he stands aghast, with arms upraised, and eyes staring wildly.
Then, as if struck by something in the appearance of the corpse, he mutteringly interrogates: “Is he sure gone dead?”
To convince himself he kneels down beside the body, having cleared away the loose coverlet still partially shrouding it.
He sees the blood, and the wound from which it is yet welling. He places his hand over the heart with a hope it may still be beating.
Surely it is! Or is he mistaken?
The pulse should be a better test; and he proceeds to feel it, taking the smooth white wrist between his rough brown fingers.
“It beats! I do believe it does!” are his words, spoken hopefully.
For some time he retains his grasp of the wrist. To make more sure, he tries the artery at different points, with a touch as tender, as if holding in his hand the life of an infant.
He becomes certain that the heart throbs; that there is yet breath in the body.