plashing of a fountain. He had taken care not to make the incision too
deep; only a few drops spurted from the wound, impelled by the action
of the heart. Death was the slower in coming for that, but no convulsion
was to be seen, for the cords were strong and the body was utterly
incapable of motion. There was no death-rattle, not a quiver of the
frame. On the face alone was evidence of the supreme agony, on that
terror-distorted mask whence the blood retreated drop by drop, leaving
the skin colorless, with a whiteness like that of linen. The expression
faded from the eyes; they became dim, the light died from out them.

"Say, Silvine, we shall want a sponge, too."

She made no reply, standing riveted to the floor in an attitude of
unconsciousness, her arms folded tightly across her bosom, her throat
constricted as by the clutch of a mailed hand, gazing on the horrible
spectacle. Then all at once she perceived that Charlot was there,
grasping her skirts with his little hands; he must have awaked and
managed to open the intervening doors, and no one had seen him come
stealing in, childlike, curious to know what was going on. How long had
he been there, half-concealed behind his mother? From beneath his shock
of yellow hair his big blue eyes were fixed on the trickling blood, the
thin red stream that little by little was filling the tub. Perhaps he
had not understood at first and had found something diverting in the
sight, but suddenly he seemed to become instinctively aware of all the
abomination of the thing; he gave utterance to a sharp, startled cry:

"Oh, mammy! oh, mammy! I'm 'fraid, take me away!"

It gave Silvine a shock, so violent that it convulsed her in every fiber
of her being. It was the last straw; something seemed to give way in
her, the excitement that had sustained her for the last two days while
under the domination of her one fixed idea gave way to horror. It was
the resurrection of the dormant woman in her; she burst into tears, and
with a frenzied movement caught Charlot up and pressed him wildly to her
heart. And she fled with him, running with distracted terror, unable to
see or hear more, conscious of but one overmastering need, to find some
secret spot, it mattered not where, in which she might cast herself upon
the ground and seek oblivion.

It was at this crisis that Jean rose from his bed and, softly opening
his door, looked out into the passage. Although he generally gave
but small attent