died outside,” he thought.  Yes, outside in that narrow corridor, where there was hardly room to turn, the mysterious death had come to his poor dear Tom.  The impulse of snatching up his pistols and rushing out of the room abandoned Byrne suddenly.  For Tom, too, had been armed—­with just such powerless weapons as he himself possessed—­pistols, a cutlass!  And Tom had died a nameless death, by incomprehensible means.

A new thought came to Byrne.  That stranger knocking at the door and fleeing so swiftly at his appearance had come there to remove the body.  Aha!  That was the guide the withered witch had promised would show the English officer the shortest way of rejoining his man.  A promise, he saw it now, of dreadful import.  He who had knocked would have two bodies to deal with.  Man and officer would go forth from the house together.  For Byrne was certain now that he would have to die before the morning—­and in the same mysterious manner, leaving behind him an unmarked body.

The sight of a smashed head, of a throat cut, of a gaping gunshot wound, would have been an inexpressible relief.  It would have soothed all his fears.  His soul cried within him to that dead man whom he had never found wanting in danger.  “Why don’t you tell me what I am to look for, Tom?  Why don’t you?” But in rigid immobility, extended on his back, he seemed to preserve an austere silence, as if disdaining in the finality of his awful knowledge to hold converse with the living.

Suddenly Byrne flung himself on his knees by the side of the body, and dry-eyed, fierce, opened the shirt wide on the breast, as if to tear the secret forcibly from that cold heart which had been so loyal to him in life!  Nothing!  Nothing!  He raised the lamp, and all the sign vouchsafed to him by that face which used to be so kindly in expression was a small bruise on the forehead—­the least thing, a mere mark.  The skin even was not broken.  He stared at it a long time as if lost in a dreadful dream.  Then he observed that Tom’s hands were clenched as though he had fallen facing somebody in a fight with fists.  His knuckles, on closer view, appeared somewhat abraded.  Both hands.

The discovery of these slight signs was more appalling to Byrne than the absolute absence of every mark would have been.  So Tom had died striking against something which could be hit, and yet could kill one without leaving a wound—­by a breath.

Terror, hot terror, began to play about Byrne’s heart like a tongue of flame that touches and withdraws before it turns a thing to ashes.  He backed away from the body as far as he could, then came forward stealthily casting fearful glances to steal another look at the bruised forehead.  There would perhaps be such a faint bruise on his own forehead—­before the morning.

“I can’t bear it,” he whispered to himself.  Tom was for him now an object of horror, a sight at once tempting and revolting to his fear.  He couldn’t bear to look at him.