He had evidently clutched at the earth and at every tuft of grass, after his fall from the saddle.
"Look here, at these hands," said Paul suddenly.

"This is an Englishman.
You never see fingers this shape in Russia." Steinmetz stooped down.

He held out his own square-tipped fingers in comparison.

Paul rubbed the dead hand with his sleeve as if it were a piece of statuary.
"Look here," he continued, "the dirt rubs off and leaves the hand quite a gentlemanly color.

This"-- he paused and lifted Steinmetz's handkerchief, dropping it again hurriedly over the mutilated face--"this thing was once a gentleman." "It certainly has seen better days," admitted Steinmetz, with a grim humor which was sometimes his.