John Grimbal's prophecy was happily not fulfilled in its gloomy
completeness: nobody had blown his head off; but Billy Blee's
prodigality of ammunition proved at last too much for the blunderbuss of
the bygone coach-guard, and in its sudden annihilation a fragment had
cut the gunner across the face, and a second inflicted a pretty deep
flesh-wound on his arm. Neither injury was very serious, and the general
escape, as John Grimbal pointed out, might be considered marvellous, for
not a soul save Billy himself had been so much as scratched.

With Martin Grimbal on one side and Mr. Chapple upon the other, the
wounded veteran walked slowly and solemnly along. The dramatic moments
of the hour were dear to him, and while tolerably confident at the
bottom of his mind that no vital hurt had been done, he openly declared
himself stricken to death, and revelled in a display of Christian
fortitude and resignation that deceived everybody but John Grimbal.
Billy gasped and gurgled, bid them see to the bandages, and reviewed his
past life with ingenuous satisfaction.

"Ah, sawls all! dead as a hammer in an hour. 'T is awver. I feel the
life swelling out of me."

"Don't say that, Billy," cried Martin, in real concern. "The blood's
stopped flowing entirely now."

"For why? Theer's no more to come. My heart be pumping wind, lifeless
wind; my lung-play's gone, tu, an' my sight's come awver that coorious.
Be Gaffer Lezzard nigh?"

"Here, alongside 'e, Bill."