Either of them would have been fatal, and about each the flesh was discolored where the hilt of the knife or the fist of the striker had driven home the blade.
They stood back and made no hopeless effort to save him.

It was uncanny that Black Morgan Gandil, after all of his battles, should die without a struggle in this way.

And it had been no cowardly attack from the rear.

Both wounds were in the front.

A hope came to them when his color increased at one time, but it was for only a moment; it went out again as if someone were erasing paint from his cheeks.
But just as they were about to turn away his body stirred with a slight convulsion, the eyes opened wide, and he strove to speak.