Yes, life hath left him — every busy thought,

Each fiery¹ passion, every strong affection,

All sense of outward ill and inward sorrow,

Are fled at once from the pale trunk before me;

And I have given that which spoke² and moved,

Thought, acted, suffer’d as a living man,

To be a ghastly form of bloody³ clay,

Soon the foul⁴ food for reptiles⁵.

Old play.

I believe few successful duellists (if the word successful can be applied⁷ to a superiority so fatal) have beheld⁸ their dead antagonist⁹ stretched on the earth at their feet, without wishing they could redeem¹⁰ with their own blood that which it has been their fate to spill. Least of all could such indifference¹¹ be the lot of so young a man as Halbert Glendinning, who, unused to the sight of human blood, was not only struck with sorrow, but with terror, when he beheld Sir Piercie Shafton lie stretched on the green-sward before him, vomiting¹² gore¹³ as if impelled¹⁴ by the strokes of a pump. He threw his bloody sword on the ground, and hastened to kneel and support him, vainly striving, at the same time, to

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