Glasscock had his fourth of it, and tasted death.

Then we three had it; and Sturk goes next; and now I and Irons--Irons and I--which goes first ?' And he fell to whistling slowly and dismally, with his hands in his breeches' pockets, looking vacantly through his spectacles on the ever-running water, an emblem of the eternal change and monotony of life.
In the meantime the party, with Tim Brian, the bare-shanked urchin, still in a pale perspiration, for guide, marched on, all looking ahead, in suspense, and talking little.
On they marched, till they got into the bosky shadow of the close old whitethorn and brambles, and there, in a lonely nook, the small birds hopping on the twigs above, sure enough, on his back, in his regimentals, lay the clay-coloured image of Sturk, some blood, nearly black now, at the corners of his mouth, and under his stern brows a streak of white eye-ball turned up to the sky.
There was a pool of blood under his pomatumed, powdered, and curled head, more under his right arm, which was slightly extended, with the open hand thrown palm upwards, as if appealing to heaven.
Toole examined him.
'No pulse, by Jove! Quiet there! don't stir!' Then he clapped his ear on Sturk's white Marseilles vest.
'Hush!' and a long pause.

Then Toole rose erect, but still on his knees, '_Will_ you be quiet there?
I think there's some little action still; only don't talk, or shift your feet; and just--just, do be quiet!' Then Toole rose to his knees again, with a side glance fixed on the face of Sturk, with a puzzled and alarmed look.

He evidently did not well know what to make of it.

Then he slipped his hand within his vest, and between his shirt and his skin.
'If he's dead, he's not long so.