Inside were two rough tables on trestles and lying on them two sheeted forms.
Dixon uncovered the first, and Anderson looked steadily down at the face underneath.

Death had wrought its strange ironic miracle once more, and out of the face of an outcast had made the face of a sage.

There was little disfigurement; the eyes were closed with dignity; the mouth seemed to have unlearnt its coarseness.

Silently the tension of Anderson's inner being gave way; he was conscious of a passionate acceptance of the mere stillness and dumbness of death.
"Where was the wound ?" he asked, stooping over the body.
"Ah, that was the strange thing! He didn't die of his wound at all! It was a mere graze on the arm." The Superintendent pointed to a rent on the coat-sleeve.

"He died of something quite different--perhaps excitement and a weak heart.