“Alas! yes.”
“Without seeing his face?”
“It did not need that. The dress told who it was—too truly.”
“What dress?”
“The striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. They were my own. But for the exchange we had made, I might have fancied it was myself. It was Henry Poindexter.”
A groan is again heard—rising above the hum of the excited hearers.
“Proceed, sir!” directs the examining counsel. “State what other circumstances came under your observation.”
“On touching the body, I found it cold and stiff. I could see that it had been dead for some length of time. The blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black. At least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up.
“I might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by the beheading. But, remembering the shot I had heard in the night, it occurred to me that another wound would be found somewhere—in addition to that made by the knife.
“It proved that I was right. On turning the body breast upward, I perceived a hole in the serapé; that all around the place was saturated with blood.