Всадник без головы

Chapter 75

           Itwasablouseofbluecottonade,box-plaitedoverthebreast;andthoughitsvividcolourwasdashedwithspotsofgarishred,thehunterwasabletorecogniseit.

           Hewasnotsosureaboutthefaceseenlowdownuponthesaddle,andrestingagainsttherider’sleg.

           Therewasnothingstrangeinhisinabilitytorecogniseit.

           Themother,whohadoftlookedfondlyonthatoncefaircountenance,wouldnothaverecogniseditnow.

           ZebStumponlydidsobydeduction.Thehorse,thesaddle,theholsters,thestripedblanket,thesky-bluecoatandtrousers—eventhehatuponthehead—wereallknowntohim.So,too,wasthefigurethatstoodalmostuprightinthestirrups.Theheadandfacemustbelongtothesame—notwithstandingtheirunaccountabledisplacement.

           Zebsawitbynouncertainglance.Hewaspermittedafull,fairviewoftheghastlyspectacle.

           Thesteed,thoughgoingatagallop,passedwithintenpacesofhim.

           Hemadenoattempttointerrupttheretreatingrider—eitherbywordorgesture.Only,astheformbecameunmaskedbeforehiseyes,anditsrealmeaningflashedacrosshismind,hemuttered,inaslow,sadtone:

           "Gee-hos-o-phat!Itairtrue,then!Pooryoungfellur—dead—dead!"

           

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