Stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage.
"It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners.
I knew the dog well; he was the King's favourite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the King's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, De mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to the dog's right shoulder, which was shattered by another ball.
"And see here," said the Constable. "Have a pull at this."
I looked where his hand now was. In the dog's mouth was a piece of grey cloth, and on the piece of grey cloth was a horn coat-button. I took hold of the cloth and pulled. Boris held on even in death. Sapt drew his sword, and, inserting the point of it between the dog's teeth, parted them enough for me to draw out the piece of cloth.
"You'd better put it in your pocket," said the Constable. "Now come along;" and, holding the lamp in one hand and his sword
