From the back of the old man there protrudes an arrowshaft.  It has pierced it close to the spine, between it and the right shoulder-blade, penetrating into the lungs, where it now stabs and smarts.

From a distant tree-top there sounds the hoarse “kuawk, kuawk” of the crow.  Otherwise all is still.

The wounded man coughs; with the cough blood comes to his lips,—­light red blood.  The thighs begin to struggle, as if formication was going on in the muscles.  It is an impotent movement, and yet is done consciously; for the trunk of the body, which was beginning more and more to yield, now begins to turn clumsily backward; the left hand clutches the soil; the arm is trying to heave, to lift.  But the weight is too heavy, the shaft inside too firmly and too deeply rooted.  Nevertheless the hips succeed in rising; the trunk follows; then it tumbles over on the back, contracts with a moan of pain and suffering, and lies there trembling with spasmodic shivers.

Topanashka has made this superhuman effort for a purpose.  He feels that his wound is severe, that his strength is gone; his senses are darkened and his thoughts confused.  Still there is a spark of life left, and that spark demands that he should attempt to see whence came the arrow that so terribly lacerates his breast.  But as he has fallen over heavily, the point of the arrow has been pressed deeper.  Flint—­an arrow-head of flint with notched edges—­tears; the muscles do not close about the intruder.  The blood flows into the chest; it fills the lungs; he suffocates.  Yet all consciousness has not vanished, although pain and oppression overwhelm the physical instruments of consciousness, and deprive the will of its connection with its tools.  The will longs to see him who has destroyed its abode, but it no longer controls the shattered tissues; the nerves shiver like the broken springs of clockwork ere they come to a stand-still forever.  The eye still distinguishes light occasionally, but it cannot see any longer.

Weaker and weaker become the breathings.  On both sides of the mouth a fold begins to form over the blood that has curdled and dried; new fillets stream to the lips from within.  The legs still twitch convulsively.

Now a stream of blood gushes from the open mouth; wave after wave rushes up with such swiftness that bubbles and froth form between the lips and remain there.  A chill pervades the whole body; it is the last nervous tremor; the lower jaw hangs down, showing with fearful distinctness the folds, the ghastly folds, of death.

All is still.  Through the tops of the pines comes a humming sound like a chant, a last lay to the brave and dutiful man.  Still, stark, and stiff he lies in his gore.  His career is ended; his soul has gone to rest.

And thus all remained quiet for a short time.  Then the grass was waved and shaken in the direction to which the old man had turned his back in the last hapless moment.  The grass seemed to grow, to suddenly rise; and a figure appeared which had been lying flat behind a projecting rocky ledge.  As this figure straightened itself, bunches of grass dropped from its back to the ground.  It was the figure of a man.