Owen was close to me.
"The man is dead," he said in a strange voice.
"I doubt it," I answered, looking at him quickly, for the voice startled me.

Then I saw that my foster father's face was white and drawn as with some trouble, and he was gazing in a still way at the man whom the warriors yet held on the floor.
"His foot has been in the fire since you hove him there, yet he has not stirred," he said.
Then I minded that I had indeed smelt the sharp smell of burning leather, and had not heeded it.

So I told the two men to draw the thrall away and turn him over.

As they did so we knew that he was indeed dead, for the long knife was deep in his side, driven home as he fell on it.

And I saw that in the hilt of it was a wonderful purple jewel set in gold.