"He was exposed en plein--the fool!--for quite a couple of
seconds."
General Feraud gazed at the motionless limbs, the last vestiges of
surprise fading before an unbounded admiration of his own deadly skill
with the pistol.
"Turned up his toes! By the god of war, that was a shot!" he exulted
mentally. "Got it through the head, no doubt, just where I aimed,
staggered behind that tree, rolled over on his back, and died."
And he stared! He stared, forgetting to move, almost awed, almost
sorry. But for nothing in the world would he have had it undone. Such a
shot!--such a shot! Rolled over on his back and died!
For it was this helpless position, lying on the back, that shouted its
direct evidence at General Feraud! It never occurred to him that
it might have been deliberately assumed by a living man. It was
inconceivable. It was beyond the range of sane supposition. There was no
possibility to guess the reason for it. And it must be said, too, that
General D'Hubert's turned-up feet looked thoroughly dead.
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