llid smile over his face, mingling with the light of the
silver spectacles.

'When Irons hears of this,' he said, 'he'll come to my estimate of
Charles Archer, and conclude he has had a finger in that pretty pie;
'twill frighten him.'

And somehow Dangerfield looked a little bit queer himself, and he drank
off two small glasses, such as folks then used in Ireland--of Nantz; and
setting down the glass, he mused--

'A queer battle life is; ha, ha! Sturk laid low--the wretched fool!
Widow--yes; children--ay. Charles! Charles! if there be a reckoning
after death, your score's an ugly one. I'm tired of playing my part in
this weary game of defence. Irons and I remain with the secret between
us. Glasscock had his fourth of it, and tasted death. Then we three had
it; and Sturk goes next; and now I and Irons--Irons and I--which goes
first?' And he fell to whistling slowly and dismally, with his hands in
his breeches' pockets, looking vacantly through his spectacles on the
ever-running water, an emblem of the eternal change and monotony of
life.

In the meantime the party, with Tim Brian, the bare-shanked urchin,
still in a pale perspiration, for guide, marched on, all looking ahead,
in suspense, and talking little.

On they marched, till they got into the bosky shadow of the close old
whitethorn and brambles, and there, in a lonely nook, the small birds
hopping on the twigs above, sure enough, on his back, in his
regimentals, lay the clay-coloured image of Sturk, some blood, nearly
black now, at the corners of his mouth, and under his stern brows a
streak of white eye-ball turned up to the sky.

There was a pool of blood under his pomatumed, powdered, and curled
head, more under his right arm, which was slightly extended, with the
open hand thrown palm upwards, as if appealing to heaven.

Toole examined him.

'No pulse, by Jove! Quiet there! don't stir!' Then he clapped his ear on
Sturk's white Marseilles vest.

'Hush!' and a long pause. Then Toole rose erect, but still on his knees,
'_Will_ you be quiet there? I think there's some little action still;
only don't talk, or shift your feet; and just--just, do be quiet!'

Then Toole rose to his knees again, with a side glance fixed on the face
of Sturk, with a puzzled and alarmed look. He evidently did not well
know what to make of it. Then he slipped his hand within his vest, and
between his shirt and his skin.

'If he's dead, he's not long so. There's warmth here.