Похищенный
Chapter 17
Butjustasheturnedtherecametheshotofafirelockfromhigherupthehill;andwiththeverysoundofitGlenurefellupontheroad.
“O,Iamdead!”hecried,severaltimesover.
Thelawyerhadcaughthimupandheldhiminhisarms,theservantstandingoverandclaspinghishands.Andnowthewoundedmanlookedfromonetoanotherwithscaredeyes,andtherewasachangeinhisvoice,thatwenttotheheart.
“Takecareofyourselves,”sayshe.“Iamdead.”
Hetriedtoopenhisclothesasiftolookforthewound,buthisfingersslippedonthebuttons.Withthathegaveagreatsigh,hisheadrolledonhisshoulder,andhepassedaway.
Thelawyersaidneveraword,buthisfacewasassharpasapenandaswhiteasthedeadman’s;theservantbrokeoutintoagreatnoiseofcryingandweeping,likeachild;andI,onmyside,stoodstaringattheminakindofhorror.Thesheriff’sofficerhadrunbackatthefirstsoundoftheshot,tohastenthecomingofthesoldiers.
Atlastthelawyerlaiddownthedeadmaninhisbloodupontheroad,andgottohisownfeetwithakindofstagger.
Ibelieveitwashismovementthatbroughtmetomysenses;forhehadnosoonerdonesothanIbegantoscrambleupthehill,cryingout,“Themurderer!themurderer!”
Solittleatimehadelapsed,thatwhenIgottothetopofthefirststeepness,andcouldseesomepartoftheopenmountain,themurdererwasstillmovingawayatnogreatdistance.Hewasabigman,inablackcoat,withmetalbuttons,andcarriedalongfowling-piece.
“Here!”Icried.
