The man was dying; his half-closed eyes were glazing fast, but his bloodless lips moved convulsively, and though his life-blood welled forth at every effort, he still strove to utter some frantic word.
"No!—he—lies!" muttered he, at last.
Thoms' trembling fingers were at his throat in a moment—Thoms' tigerish eyes flashed out their rage.
"Let him alone," expostulated Reed. "Let the poor wretch speak."
"Off, Thoms!" thundered St. Udo, with a terrible frown.
Both colonels stooped over the Confederate soldier. St. Udo put his ear close to the twitching lips.
"He shot the pistol off himself," muttered the man. "Before Heaven, I swear it! He stabbed me to save himself. He did—he did!"
The life-blood oozed into his lungs and choked him; he clasped his hands and threw them up toward Heaven, as if he called on his creator to witness his innocence, and immediately expired.
The two friends rose and looked at Thoms.
Whiter in his grave he would never be. The veins stood out on his damp forehead like whipcord, but he returned their fierce gaze with a dogged firmness.