"A dead man?" I guessed instantly.
"Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An
exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the
same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, 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 favorite, 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 gray cloth, and on the piece of gray cloth was a horn
coat-button.
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