Over his right eye gaped an ugly wound from which oozed a stream of blood that stained his cheek and throat.

Dr.
Teackle, on one knee, was searching the patient's heart, while Kate, her pretty frock soiled with mud, her hair dishevelled, sat crouched in the dirt rubbing his hands--sobbing bitterly--crying out whenever Harry, who was kneeling beside her, tried to soothe her:--"No!--No!--My heart's broken--don't speak to me--go away!" The colonel, towering above them, looked the scene over, then he confronted Harry, who had straightened to his feet on seeing his father.
"A pretty piece of work--and on a night like this! A damnable piece of work, I should say, sir!...

Has he killed him, Teackle ?" The young doctor shook his head ominously.
"I cannot tell yet--his heart is still beating." St.George now joined the group.

He and Gilbert and the other seconds had, in order to maintain secrecy, been rounding up the few negroes who had seen the encounter, or who had been attracted to the spot by the firing.
"Harry had my full consent, Talbot--there was really nothing else to do.
Only an ounce of cold lead will do in some cases, and this was one of them." He was grave and deliberate in manner, but there was an infinite sadness in his voice.
"He did--did he ?" retorted the colonel bitterly.

"YOUR full consent! YOURS! and I in the next room!" Here he beckoned to one of the negroes who, with staring eyeballs, stood gazing from one to the other.