Yet I do remember that, if any one
definite expression still lingered there, it was bitter contempt and
scorn.
"In God's name, sir, what is to be done?" It was Hardy who spoke, poor
Forrester's own servant, the only Englishman among our attendants. He
was choking, and could hardly gasp out the words.
Livingstone rose slowly, first pillowing the mangled head on a soft tuft
of moss, tenderly as if it were conscious still. His nature was such
that no shock, or pain, or sorrow to which humanity is liable, could
bend or quell it, so as to deprive him, beyond a brief instant, of
self-possession and calmness. It was not insensibility now, and hardly
stoicism, but an elasticity of resistance and strength of endurance
that, in my own knowledge, have never been matched. In history or in
Indian life you might find many parallels.
He answered quite steadily, though in a low tone, as if reverencing the
presence of the dead.
"There is no hope. It is useless to send for a surgeon. Hardy, you will
take all the men whom you can collect and scour the country. Send to the
_sbirri_ immediately; they will go with you. There must be traces of the
murderer. Frank, will you see that--he--is brought carefully to the
house? I will"--he stopped, and drew a long, hard breath--"I will go and
break it to Isabel.
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