Nothing else can be done.
With sighs and sobs, stifled groans and tears, the body is raised up, one supporting the head, the other the feet.

Thus they drag and carry it along on the old trail to the Rito.

Blood clings to their hands and to their dress.

Never mind.

Is it not the blood of a good man, and may not with that blood some of his good qualities perhaps pass into them?
Not a word is spoken, not even when they lay down the corpse to rest themselves a while.