“No, sir.”
“Tell—tell them—l-let me hear you.”
“You see that wound in her forehead—you saw it all, from the first,” he said, to the crowd, who were gazing in mute horror at the scene. “I told you, when I took you to the body, that I saw her die, and would tell you how she died, when the time should come. The time has come. He—that man, whose body lies there bleeding, and whose soul is now burning in Tophet, murdered her in cold blood—beat her brains out with his loaded hunting-whip. I—I, Hubert Manvers, saw him do it.”
There was a low, dull murmur in the crowd, not of dissent or disbelief, but of doubt.
“And who slew master?” exclaimed black Jem Alderly, coming doggedly forward; “this has got to be answered for.”
“It is answered for, Alderly,” said Durzil, in a faint but audible voice. “I did it—I slew him, as he has slain me. I am Durzil Olifaunt, whom men call Bras-de-fer. Do any of you chance to know me?”
“Ay, ay, all on us! all on us!” shouted half the room; for the frank, gallant, bold young seaman had ever been a general favorite. “Huzza! for Master Durzil!”
And in spite of the horrors of the scene, in spite of the presence of the dead, a loud cheer followed.
“Hush!” he cried, “hush! this is no time for that, and no place. I am a dying man. There is not five minutes’ life in me. Listen to me. Did any of you ever hear me tell a lie?”
“Never! never!”