nd quivered elsewhere through bough and brake, settled there steadily
on a single white spot.

In all the world there is but one object on which she can cast so
ghastly a reflection--a dead man's face.

Guy recovered himself first, and plunged recklessly down the cliff side.
When we reached him, he was supporting on his knee the head of poor
Charley Forrester, stone dead, and foully murdered.

The first glance told how unavailing all human aid must be. One small
deep wound just above the left temple must have been fatal instantly.
Close by his side lay the instrument of the slaughter--a thin,
triangular piece of granite--and, ten paces off, his pistol, one barrel
discharged. His watch and (as we afterward found) his purse were gone,
but an emerald ring of great value was still untouched on his finger.

I staggered back, heart-sick and faint. When I recovered I saw dimly the
group of men, awe-stricken and whispering, and Guy still gazing down at
the face that rested on his knee, as if it fascinated his eyes. I could
not bear to look upon the piteous sight. All through the bright hair the
dark blood had soaked, and a slow stream was stealing through it still;
the fair features were all defaced and deformed with the wrath and
agony of the last mortal struggle. Yet I do remember that, if any one
definite expression still lingered there, it was bitter contempt and
scorn.

"In God's name, sir, what is to be done?" It was Hardy who spoke, poor
Forrester's own servant, the only Englishman among our attendants. He
was choking, and could hardly gasp out the words.

Livingstone rose slowly, first pillowing the mangled head on a soft tuft
of moss, tenderly as if it were conscious still. His nature was such
that no shock, or pain, or sorrow to which humanity is liable, could
bend or quell it, so as to deprive him, beyond a brief instant, of
self-possession and calmness. It was not insensibility now, and hardly
stoicism, but an elasticity of resistance and strength of endurance
that, in my own knowledge, have never been matched. In history or in
Indian life you might find many parallels.

He answered quite steadily, though in a low tone, as if reverencing the
presence of the dead.

"There is no hope. It is useless to send for a surgeon. Hardy, you will
take all the men whom you can collect and scour the country. Send to the
_sbirri_ immediately; they will go with you. There must be traces of the
murderer. Frank, will you see