The snow was already red with blood where he lay. For the first time, Crandall looked for the scar that the description said was on the right cheek. For an instant he did not see it, and his heart seemed to stop beating with the fear of having made a mistake, and when, on drawing nearer, he saw that it was there, that only the pallor which had spread over the man’s face had made it indistinct, he could have cried out with joy at the feeling of relief that passed over him. “Are you badly wounded?” he asked. “I don’t know how bad it is. It is here somewhere,” the man said, placing his hand on his breast, as if not certain of the exact spot. “It feels numb-like,” he added. Stooping down, Crandall unbuckled and took off the man’s pistol-belt and threw it into the snow, where lay his rifle, and then he tore open the man’s shirt. As he did so his fingers came in contact with the warm blood, and he involuntarily drew back, with a feeling of disgust. “Did you find it?” asked the man, who was watching him closely, and who had observed the movement. Recalled to himself by the question, Crandall again tore at the shirt, exposing the breast. Where the blood did not cover it, it looked like marble, despite the dark hair on it. He could not see the wound, on account of the blood, until he had wiped the latter from the breast, and then he found it. “What do you think of it?” the man asked. “There it is,” replied Crandall. He could not say more. The appealing tone in the man’s voice for some hope--some encouragement--made him feel faint and sick. “What do you think of it?” the man repeated, in a querulous voice, and, as he did so, he coughed until his mouth filled with blood, and he spat it out on the white snow. Crandall shook his head and walked toward where his horse was tied. He felt that if he watched the wounded man any longer he would faint. Noticing his walking away, the wounded man said: “For God’s sake, don’t leave me. Now that you have killed me, stay with me, and don’t let me die like a dog.”