t, my young fellow, that you did it yourself?"

BLOOD-GUILTY

His overwhelming horror was not alleviated by a moment's doubt. He
marvelled rather that he had never guessed what he had done. The walking
in his sleep, the shot that woke him, the first words of Dr. Baumgartner,
his first swift action, and the warm pistol in his own unconscious hand:
these burning memories spoke more eloquently than any words. They would
have told their own tale at once, if only he had known the man was dead.
Why had he been deceived? It was cruel, it was infamous, to have kept the
truth from him for a single instant. Thus wildly did the stricken youth
turn and rend his benefactor for the very benefaction of a day's rest in
ignorance of his deed. The doctor defended himself firmly, frankly, with
much patience and some cynicism. Pocket was reminded of the state he
himself had been in at the time. He also might have been a dying man, he
was assured, and could well believe on looking back. Baumgartner had
actually opened his lips to tell him the truth, but had checked himself in
sheer humanity. Again the boy could confirm the outward detail out of his
own recollection. To have told him later in the morning, the doctor went
on to say, with an emphasis not immediately understood, could have undone
nothing. He acknowledged a grave responsibility, but rightly or wrongly
he had put the living before the dead.

How had he known the man was dead? Baumgartner smiled at the question.
He was not only a doctor, but an old soldier who had fought in one at
least of the bloodiest battles in European history. He had seen too many
men fall shot through the heart to be mistaken for a moment; but in point
of fact he had confirmed his conviction by brief examination while Pocket
was fetching his things from behind the bush. Pocket pressed for earlier
details with a morbid appetite which was not gratified without reluctance,
and out of a laconic interchange the deed was gradually reconstructed with
appealing verisimilitude. It was Baumgartner who had first caught sight
of the somnambulist, treading warily like the blind, yet waving the
revolver as he went, as though any moment he might let it off. The moment
came with a wretched reeling man who joined Baumgartner on the path, and
would not be warned. The poor man had raised a drunken shout and been
shot pointblank through the heart. The doctor described him as leaping
backward from t