Ludwell Cary lay peacefully.  One arm was outstretched, the head a little back, the face quiet, with nothing in it of wrath or fear or pain.  The storm had not hurt him.  There was little disarray.  It was much as though he had thrown himself down there, beside the water, with a sigh for the pleasure of rest.  The younger Cary waited motionless for the blood to come back to his heart and the mist before his eyes to clear.  It cleared; he saw plainly his brother, guide, and friend, and with a cry he flung himself down and across the body.

The men at the water’s edge turned away their faces.  The rudest unit of the small throng beneath the trees put up a sudden hand and removed his cap, and his example was followed.  It had been a known thing, the comradeship of these brothers, and there were few in the county more loved than the Carys.

Moments passed.  The sheriff spoke in a low voice to Mr. Morris, whereupon the latter whispered to Colonel Churchill.  “Edward,” said the Colonel, “time’s being lost.  Hadn’t you better try to get him away?”

Major Edward moved along the bank to the two forms and stood in silence, gazing with twitching lips at the dead man’s countenance, so impassive, cold, remote, alien now from all interests of this flesh, quite indifferent to love or to hate, supremely careless as to whether his story were ever told.  The Major put his hand to his fierce old eagle eyes, and took it away wet with tears, slow, acrid, and difficult.  He stooped and touched the living man.  “Fair,—­come, Fair!”

The other moved slightly, but did not offer to rise.  Major Edward waited, then touched him again.  “Fair, we want to mark closely how he lies, and then we want to take him to Greenwood.  He has been here long, you know.”

His words elicited only a low groan, but presently Cary lifted himself from the body, remained for a moment upon his knees, then rose to his feet.  “Yes, to Greenwood,” he said.  “He lay here last night in the wind and rain, and I was warm and happy—­I was asleep and dreaming!  Why did I leave him at Elm Tree?  If I had been with him—­”

His face changed, startlingly.  He stooped with rapidity, looked at and touched the dark stain upon the coat, straightened himself, and turned violently upon the Major and the little group which had now approached.  “Who?” he demanded in a voice that rose to a hoarse cry.  “Who?”

Colonel Churchill answered him.  “We don’t know, Fair, but by the living God, we’ll find out!” and the sheriff, “We’ve no clue yet, sir, but if ’twas plain murder—­and it looks that way, for your brother wasn’t armed—­then I reckon the man who did it will as soon find his ease in hell as in old Virginia!”

The farmer who had been first upon the ground spoke from the edge of the group.  “I never heard a soul in this county say a hard word of Mr. Cary.  I shouldn’t ha’ thought, barring politics, that he had an enemy.”