Before the smoke had curled a yard upward, Horace Levinge sprang into
the air, and, with out-stretched arms, fell crashing down upon the
grass--a bullet through his brain.
They turned him over on his back. It was a ghastly sight; the ball had
penetrated just below the arch of the right eyebrow, and all the lower
features were swollen and distorted with the blow of last night, adding
to the hideous disfigurement.
Is that the face on which the dead man used to spend hours, tending it,
like an ancient coquette, with washes and cosmetics, dreading the
faintest freckle or sunburn which might mar the smoothness of the
delicate skin? No need of the surgeon there. Cover it up quickly. The
mother that bore him, if she should recognize him, would recoil in
disgust and loathing.
"_C'en est fini_," Livingstone said to De Rosny, who stood by shuddering
in horror, not at the death, but at the treachery which had preceded it.
None but a Frenchman could have given such an accent to the low, hissing
reply, "_Je l'espere_."
Then they looked to Mohun's wound; it was nothing serious: there were a
dozen deeper on the warworn body and limbs. Indeed, I imagine his
general health was materially benefited by the blood-letting.
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