"Why, Lorrequer, did you not see that your pistol, on being struck, threw
your ball high up on the quarry; fortunately, however, about a foot and a
half above Mr. O'Leary's head, whose most serious wounds are his
scratched hands and bruised bones from his tumble."

This explanation, which was perfectly satisfactory to me, was by no means
so consoling to poor O'Leary, who lay quite unconscious to all around,
moaning in the most melancholy manner. Some of the blood, which
continued to flow fast from my wound, having dropped upon his face,
roused him a little--but only to increase his lamentation for his own
destiny, which he believed was fast accomplishing.

"Through the skull--clean through the skull--and preserving my senses to
the last! Mr. Lorrequer, stoop down--it is a dying man asks you--don't
refuse me a last request. There's neither luck nor grace, honor nor
glory in such a way of fighting--so just promise me you'll shoot that
grinning baboon there, when he's going off the ground, since it's the
fashion to fire at a man with his back to you. Bring him down, and I'll
die easy."

And with these words he closed his eyes, and straightened out his legs
--stretched his arm at either side, and arranged himself as much corpse
fashion as the circumstances of the ground would permit--while I now
freely participated in the mirth of the others, which, loud and
boisterous as it was, never reached the ears of O'Leary.

My arm had now become so painful, that I was obliged to ask Trevanion to
assist me in getting off my coat. The surprise of the Frenchmen on
learning that I was wounded was very considerable--O'Leary's catastrophe
having exclusively engaged all attention. My arm was now examined, when