Paul held the lamp down, and through the mud and blood Claude de Chauxville's clear-cut features were outlined.
Death is always unmistakable, though it be shown by nothing more than a heap of muddy clothes.
Claude de Chauxville was lying across the passage.

He had been trodden underfoot by the stream of maddened peasants who had entered by this door which had been opened for them, whom Steinmetz had checked at the foot of the stairs by shooting their ringleader.
De Chauxville's scalp was torn away by a blow, probably given with a spade or some blunt instrument.

His hand, all muddy and bloodstained, still held a revolver.
The other hand was stretched out toward Etta, who lay across his feet, crouching against the wall.

Death had found and left her in an attitude of fear, shielding her bowed head from a blow with her upraised hands.
Her loosened hair fell in a long wave of gold down to the bloodstained hand outstretched toward her.

She was kneeling in De Chauxville's blood, which stained the stone floor of the passage.
Paul leaned forward and laid his fingers on the bare arm, just below a bracelet which gleamed in the lamplight.