Fiction > Book editions > London, 1886 - Kidnapped

THE   DEATH   OF  THE   RED   FOX.                   163
wound, but his fingers slipped on the buttons. With
that he gave a great sigh, his head rolled on his shoulder,
and he passed away.
The lawyer said never a word, but his face was as
sharp as a pen and as white as the dead man's; the
servant broke out into a great noise of crying and weep-
ing, like a child; and I, on my side, stood staring at
them in a kind of horror. The sheriff's officer had run
back at the first sound of the shot, to hasten the coming
of the soldiers.
At last the lawyer laid down the dead man in his
blood upon the road, and got to his own feet with a kind
of stagger.
I believe it was his movement that brought me to my
senses; for he had no sooner done so than I began to
scramble up the hill, crying out, "The murderer! the
murderer!"
So little a time had elapsed, that when I got to the
top of the first steepness, and could see some part of the
open mountain, the murderer was still moving away
at no great distance. He was a big man, in a black
coat, with metal buttons, and carried a long fowling-
piece.
"Here!" I cried.    "I see him!"
At that the murderer gave a little, quick look over
his shoulder, and began to run. The next moment he
was lost in a fringe of birches; then he came out again
on the upper side, where I could see him climbing like
a jackanapes, for that part was again very steep; and
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