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56 That was the way the news came to me. So far as I can recollect, my first feeling was one of violent anger against poor Tom, who, as I imagined, was telling some hideous falsehood. That Henry could be dead was not possible. Anybody else might be dead,—but not Henry. Henry, my playmate in boyhood, from whom I had parted only that afternoon, alive and well,—Henry dead? I was almost ready to kill Tom for saying so,—as if that would bring my brother back to life.

But after a few moments of dizzy incredulity I steadied myself and confronted the truth; and with it came a wonderful glow and buoyancy of strength, so that I became entirely unconscious of my body, and seemed to be all will and power. I motioned Tom to lead the way, and he went off at a run, with me at his heels. We crossed the lawn and plunged down the slope into the wood. Just as we turned to the right to reach the cliff, we met some one: it was John. At sight of me he uttered a cry of astonishment; I did not then know why, forgetting that I had been a cripple five minutes before. "Come! come!" was all I said; and he turned, and ran beside me. He asked some questions, but I only shook my head. Tom, before us, dodged along between the trunks and beneath the boughs of the trees: it was dark, but I saw all his movements distinctly, and could describe every one of them at this moment. Every sense was dilated and intensified almost to the point of suffering. And when we drew near the fatal place I believe I pushed on in advance of the others, and was actually the first to reach the body.

With the touch of my hand upon it came a change: the frantic, unconscious energy which brought me to him was transformed into a no less unnatural serenity and self-possession; it might almost be called coldness. My nerves were steady, my perception clear, my voice calm and authoritative. The others followed my directions and waited upon my movements with involuntary submission. After carefully noting the position of the body and assuring myself that no life was left, I asked for a knife, which Tom handed me, and cut off the coat and underclothing, laying bare the wound. It was small and dark where the bullet had entered, but in the breast there was a ragged hole, half as large as the palm of my hand: the effusion of blood, however, had not been great,—death had been too sudden. The left side of the skull was slightly crushed, evidently from the fall, and the left arm was fractured at the elbow. The face, when the leaves and clay which adhered to it had been removed, appeared calm in its expression: I lit a wax match from a box that John carried, and scrutinized it closely. The match burnt without flickering in the still air. It was a handsome face,—never handsomer than then,—and a dignity invested it which