quivered all over as the face of a man in torture.

Muriel spoke at last, breaking her stricken silence with a strangely
effortless composure. "Tell me more," she said.

She stirred in his arms as if to free herself from some oppression,
and finally drew herself away from him, though not as if she wished to
escape his touch. She still seemed to be hardly aware of him. He was
the medium of her information, that was all. Nick dropped back into
his former attitude, his hands clasped firmly round his knees, his
eyes, keen as a bird's and extremely bright, gazing across the ravine.
His lips still quivered a little, but his voice was perfectly even and
quiet.

"It happened very soon after the firing began. It must have been
directly after he left you. He was hit in the breast, just over the
heart. We couldn't do anything for him. He knew himself that it was
mortal. In fact, I think he had almost expected it. We took him into
the guardroom and made him as easy as possible. He lost consciousness
before he died. He was lying unconscious when I came to you."

Muriel made a sharp movement. "And you never told me," she said, in a
dry whisper.

"I thought it best," he answered with great gentleness. "You could not
have gone to him. He didn't wish it."

"Why not?" she demanded, and suddenly her voice rang harsh again. "Why
could I not have gone to him? Why didn't he wish it?"