It was horrible, full of pain and devilish rage.
With his disengaged hand he pointed to Anscombe sitting in the cart and grasping a pistol that still smoked.
"You've killed me," he said in a hoarse, choking voice, for he was shot through the lung, "to get her," and he waved his hand towards Heda who was peering at him between the heads of the two men.

"You are a murderer, as her father was, and as David was before you.

Well, I hope you won't keep her long.

I hope you'll die as I do and break her false heart, you damned thief." All of this he said in a slow voice, pausing between the words and speaking ever more thickly as the blood from his wound choked him.

Then of a sudden it burst in a stream from his lips, and still pointing with an accusing finger at Anscombe, he fell backwards into the slimy pool behind him and there vanished without a struggle.
So horrible was the sight that the driver, Footsack, leapt from the cart, uttering a kind of low howl, ran to Rodd's horse, scrambled into the saddle and galloped off, striking it with his fist, where to I do not know.