the third soldier of the party. "He may become very dangerous when he's worked up. His eyes—"
The soldier stopped short. The Buddhist priest had turned to look at the Americans. Now he made a horrible face,—like that of a snarling wolf,—and spat at them. Then, turning swiftly, he placed his dagger to his breast, and, looking up at the idol, let himself fall upon the point of the blade.
"He has killed himself!" burst out Gilbert, and leaped forward, followed by his men. But he was too late. When they turned the old priest over, he was stone-dead. Rather than become a prisoner of the enemy, he had taken his own life.
As they gathered around the old man, they noted that the wolf-like expression of the face was gone, and something like a smile had taken its place. Nobody could speak for several seconds, and Gilbert felt a curious lump rise in his throat.
"He's dead!" he murmured hoarsely. "He wanted to take my life, but I don't bear him any grudge. He thought he was in the right, and he lived according to his light. I wish this war was over."
And just then every man who heard those words wished the same.
