He strove to speak, but he could only utter a few unintelligible words, for his life blood was suffocating him.

A violent convulsion shook every limb, then arose a long, deep-drawn sigh, and then silence--George de Croisenois was dead.
Yes, he was dead, and Norbert de Champdoce stood over him with a wild look of terror in his eyes, and his hair bristling upon his head, as a shudder of horror convulsed his body.

Then, for the first time, he realized the horror of seeing a man slain by his own hand; and yet what affected Norbert most was not that he had killed George de Croisenois--for he believed that justice was on his side and that he could not have acted otherwise--but the perspiration stood in thick beads upon his forehead, as he thought that he must raise up that still warm and quivering body, and place it in its unhallowed grave.
He hesitated and reasoned with himself for some time, going over all the reasons that made dispatch so absolutely necessary--the risk of detection, and the honor of his name.
He stooped and prepared to raise it, but recoiled again before his hands had touched the body.

His heart failed him, and once more he assumed an erect position.

At last he nerved himself, grasped the body, and, with an immense exertion of strength, hurled it into the gaping grave.