The snow was in his scant hair and in the hollow of his vast, half-naked chest.

A pistol was in his hand, but there was no mark upon him, and Milton's heart leaped with quick relief.

It was delirium, not suicide.
There was a sort of majesty in the figure half-buried in the snow.

His hands were clenched, and there was a frown of resolution on his face, as if he had fancied Death coming and had gone defiantly forth to meet him.
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