“Do you know anything of the major, Nick?” the serjeant demanded, determined to examine the case thoroughly ere he came to a decision.

“Major dere—­see him at door—­plenty sentinel.  All good—­where cap’in?”

“Where did you leave him?—­You can give the last account of him.”

“Go in behind cupboard—­under rock—­plenty bushes—­all right—­son dere.”

“This must be looked to—­perhaps his honour has fallen into a fit—­such things sometimes happen—­and a man who is fighting for his own child, doesn’t feel, Jamie, all the same as one who fights on a general principle, as it might be.”

“Na—­ye ’re right, sairjeant J’yce, and ye’ll be doing the kind and prudent act, to gang doon yersal’, and investigate the trainsaction with yer ain een.”

This Joyce determined to do, directing Nick to accompany him, as a guide.  The Indian seemed glad to comply, and there was no delay in proceeding.  It required but a minute to reach the narrow passage between the cliff and the lean-to.  The bushes were carefully shoved aside, and Joyce entered.  He soon caught a glimpse of the hunting-shirt, and then he was about to withdraw, believing that he was in error, in anticipating orders.  But a short look at his commander removed all scruples; for he observed that he was seated on a projection of the rocks, with his body bowed forward, apparently leaning on the logs of the building.  This seemed to corroborate the thought about a fit, and the serjeant pressed eagerly forward to ascertain the truth.

Joyce touched his commander’s arm, but no sign of consciousness came from the latter.  He then raised his body upright, placing the back in a reclining attitude against the rocks, and started back himself when he caught a glimpse of the death-like hue of the face.  At first, the notion of the fit was strong with the serjeant; but, in changing his own position, he caught a glimpse of a little pool of blood, which at once announced that violence had been used.

Although the serjeant was a man of great steadiness of nerves, and unchangeable method, he fairly trembled as he ascertained the serious condition of his old and well-beloved commander.  Notwithstanding, he was too much of a soldier to neglect anything that circumstances required.  On examination, he discovered a deep and fatal wound between two of the ribs, which had evidently been inflicted with a common knife.  The blow had passed into the heart, and Captain Willoughby was, out of all question, dead!  He had breathed his last, within six feet of his own gallant son, who, ignorant of all that passed, was little dreaming of the proximity of one so dear to him, as well as of his dire condition.

Joyce was a man of powerful frame, and, at that moment, he felt he was master of a giant’s strength.  First assuring himself of the fact that the wounded man had certainly ceased to breathe, he brought the arms over his own shoulders, raised the body on his back, and walked from the place, with less attention to caution than on entering, but with sufficient care to prevent exposure.  Nick stood watching his movements with a wondering look, and as soon as there was room, he aided in supporting the corpse.