“Look at his left hand,” said Mr. Henry.
“It is all bloody,” said I.
“On the inside?” said he.
“It is cut on the inside,” said I.
“I thought so,” said he, and turned his back.
I opened the man’s clothes; the heart was quite still, it gave not a flutter.
“God forgive us, Mr. Henry!” said I. “He is dead.”
“Dead?” he repeated, a little stupidly; and then, with a rising tone, “Dead? dead?” says he, and suddenly cast his bloody sword upon the ground.
“What must we do?” said I. “Be yourself, sir. It is too late now: you must be yourself.”
He turned and stared at me. “O, Mackellar!” says he, and put his face in his hands.