“Dear Richard,” said Harrington, in the same voice of hollow sweetness—“dear friends all, I am going to leave you.”
They gazed at him.
“What do you mean?” faltered Wentworth, in a hushed voice.
“Look,” murmured Harrington.
They stared aghast at the hand he held out to them. The tips of the fingers were red with blood.
A slow horror sank upon them with an icy chill, and the hair of the three rose as though they were one.
“I am hurt to the life,” said Harrington. “Here.”
He laid the bloody hand upon his left side just over the heart, as he uttered the last word.
Bagasse fell upon his knees before him with a yell, and flung open the coat and vest, which were unbuttoned, while Wentworth and the Captain burst into tears. There was a little blood on the white shirt—very little. Bagasse stared at it for an instant, with a look of livid horror. Then, with a fierce and sudden motion, he rent the shirt in two, put in his hand to the slit of the undershirt, tore it down, and pulling the clothes asunder with both hands, gazed. A little blot of thin red on the silver skin—in the centre a short dark line—a little red blood thinly oozing from it. They all gazed upon the wound.