RODERICK HUDSON
rents upon him, and his clothes and hair were as wet as if the billows of the ocean had flung him upon the strand. An attempt to move him would attest some fatal fracture, some horrible physical dishonour, but what Rowland saw on first looking at him was only a noble expression of life. The eyes were the eyes of death, but in a short time, when he had closed them, the whole face seemed to revive. The rain had washed away all blood; it was as if violence, having wrought her ravage, had stolen away in shame. Roderick's face might have shamed her; it was indescribably, and all so innocently, fair.
Then Singleton spoke as for the time of his life. "He was the most beautiful of men!"
They looked up through their dismay at the cliff from which he had unmistakeably fallen and which lifted its blank and stony face above him, with no care now but to drink the sunshine on which his eyes were closed; and Rowland had thus a wild outbreak of pity and anguish. His friend put round him a supporting arm, and the pair gasped together, for a long minute, in their pain, like guilty creatures discovered. At last they spoke of carrying their comrade home. "There must be three or four men," Rowland said, "and they must be brought fast. I haven't the least idea where we are."
"We 're at about three hours' walk from the inn. It 's I who must go for help," Singleton insisted; "I can easily find my way."
"Remember then whom you 'll have to face!" said Rowland.
"I remember," the little artist answered. "There
524
