The thing that yesterday was his friend lay before him as the chance of the last breath had left it, and out of it Roderick's face stared upward, open-eyed, at the sky.
He had fallen from a great height, but he was singularly little disfigured.

The rain had spent its torrents upon him, and his clothes and hair were as wet as if the billows of the ocean had flung him upon the strand.

An attempt to move him would show some hideous fracture, some horrible physical dishonor; but what Rowland saw on first looking at him was only a strangely serene expression of life.

The eyes were dead, but in a short time, when Rowland had closed them, the whole face seemed to awake.

The rain had washed away all blood; it was as if Violence, having done her work, had stolen away in shame.