It
was to the figure just behind him,--the cloaked figure whose hand grasped
the hunting-knife which from the stage, as she had looked to where stood
her lover, she had seen or divined. "Jean! Jean Hugon!" she cried.

Involuntarily the trader pushed toward her, past the man whom he meant to
stab to the heart. The action, dragging his cloak aside, showed the
half-raised arm and the gleaming steel. For many minutes the knife had
been ready. The play was nearly over, and she must see this man who had
stolen her heart, this Haward of Fair View, die. Else Jean Hugon's
vengeance were not complete. For his own safety the maddened half-breed
had ceased to care. No warning cried from the stage could have done aught
but precipitate the deed, but now for the moment, amazed and doubtful, he
turned his back upon his prey.

In that moment the Audrey of the woods, a creature lithe and agile and
strong of wrist as of will, had thrown herself upon him, clutching the
hand that held the knife. He strove to dash her from him, but in vain; the
house was in an uproar; and now Haward's hands were at his throat,
Haward's voice was crying to that fair devil, that Audrey for whom he had
built his house, who was balking him of revenge, whose body was between
him and his enemy! Suddenly he was all savage; as upon a night in Fair
View house he had cast off the trammels of his white blood, so now. An
access of furious strength came to him; he shook himself free; the knife
gleamed in the air, descended.... He drew it from the bosom into which he
had plunged it, and as Haward caught her in his arms, who would else have
sunk to the floor, the half-breed burst through the horror-stricken
throng, brandishing the red blade and loudly speaking in the tongue of the
Monacans. Like a whirlwind he was gone from the house, and for a time none
thought to follow him.

[Illustration: "JEAN! JEAN HUGON!"]

They bore her into the small white house, and up the stair to her own
room, and laid her upon the bed. Dr. Contesse came and went away, and came
again. There was a crowd in Palace Street before the theatre. A man
mounting the doorstep so that he might be heard of all, said clearly, "She
may live until dawn,--no longer." Later, one came out of the house and
asked that there might be quiet. The crowd melted away, but throughout the
mild night, filled with the soft airs and thousand odors of the spring,
people stayed about the place, standing silent in the stree