of their mirth.

I had not time to run to his aid--which, although wounded, I should have
done--when the branch he clung to, slowly yielded with his weight, and
the round, plump figure of my poor friend rolled over the little cleft of
rock, and, after a few faint struggles, came tumbling heavily down, and
at last lay peaceably in the deep heather at the bottom--his cries the
whole time being loud enough to rise even above the vociferous laughter
of the others.

I now ran forward, as did Trevanion, when O'Leary, turning his eyes
towards me, said, in the most piteous manner--

"Mr. Lorrequer, I forgive you--here is my hand--bad luck to their French
way of fighting, that's all--it's only good for killing one's friend.
I thought I was safe up there, come what might."

"My dear O'Leary," said I, in an agony, which prevented my minding the
laughing faces around me, "surely you don't mean to say that I have
wounded you?"

"No, dear, not wounded, only killed me outright--through the brain it
must be, from the torture I'm suffering."

The shout with which this speech was received, sufficiently aroused me;
while Trevanion, with a voice nearly choked with laughter, said--

"Why, Lorrequer, did you not see that your pistol, on being struck, threw
your ball high up on the quarry; fortunately, however, about a foot and a
half above Mr. O'Leary's head, whose most serious wounds are his
scratched hands and bruised bones from his tumble."

This explanation, which was perfectly satisfactory to me, was by no means
so consoling to poor O'Leary, who lay quite unconscious to all around,
moaning in the most melancholy manner. Some of the blood, which
continued to flow fast from my wound, having dropped upon his face,
roused him a little--but only to increase his lamentation for his own
destiny, which he believed was fast accomplishing.

"Through the skull--clean through the skull--and preserving my senses to
the last! Mr. Lorrequer, stoop down--it is a dying man asks you--don't
refuse me a last request. There's neither luck nor grace, honor nor
glory in such a way of fighting--so just promise me you'll shoot that
grinning baboon there, when he's going off the ground, since it's the
fashion to fire at a man with his back to you. Bring him down, and I'll
die easy."

And with these words he closed his eyes, and straightened out his legs
--stretched his arm at either side, and arranged himself as much corpse
fashion as the circum