His words fell into sudden silence. Honoria believed him; the bleakness that hung about him left no room for doubt.

"You saw the wound-how the blood kept pulsing? The ball nicked the heart-either that, or one of the big vessels close by. That's why we can't stop the bleeding." He gestured to where blood was staining the thick pad. "Every time his heart beats, he dies a little more."

Glancing at the youth's innocent face, Honoria drew in a slow breath. Then she looked at her rescuer. She wasn't sure she believed the impassive face he wore. His very stoicism fed her suspicion; compassion stirred.

Then he frowned, black brows slashing down as he held up the youth's coat. Honoria watched as he examined the button opposite the bloody hole. "What is it?"

"The button deflected the ball. See?" He held the button to the light so she could see the dent in its rim, the scorching beside it. Eyes measuring the coat against the youth, he added: "If it hadn't been for the button, it would have been a clean shot through the heart."

Honoria grimaced. "A pity perhaps." When he glanced her way, green eyes strangely empty, she gestured helplessly. "In the circumstances, I mean-a slow death, rather than a fast one."

He said nothing but continued to frown at the button. Honoria pressed her lips together, trying to deny the impulse, and failed. "But?"

"But…" He hesitated, then went on: "A clean shot through the heart with a long-barreled pistol-small bore, so it wasn't a shotgun or even horse pistol-at reasonable range-closer would have left more of a burn-is no mean feat. Pulling off such a shot takes remarkable skill."

"And remarkable cold-bloodedness, I imagine."