He raised his aching right hand to his eyes. One of his fingers was
bleeding. Perhaps it had become hooked in her earrings, perhaps a pin
at her breast had scratched it. He sucked the blood from the deep
scratch, and then forgot the wound in order to gaze again at the body
outstretched at his feet.

Little by little he was becoming accustomed to the diffused light of
the room. He was already beginning to see objects clearly. His glance
rested upon Freya with a look of mingled hatred and remorse.

Her head, sunk in the cushions, presented a pitiful profile. She
appeared much older, as though her age had been doubled by her tears.
The brutal blow had made her freshness and her marvelous youth flit
away with doleful suddenness. Her half-opened eyes were encircled with
temporary wrinkles. Her nose had taken on the livid sharpness of the
dead; her great mass of hair, reddening under the blow, was disheveled
in golden, undulating tangles. Something black was winding through it
making streaks upon the silk of the cushion. It was the blood that was
dribbling between the heraldic flowers of the embroidery,--blood
flowing from the hidden forehead, being absorbed by the dryness of the
soft material.

Upon making this discovery, Ferragut felt his shame increasing. He took
one step over the extended body, seeking the door. Why was he staying
there?... All that he had to do was already done; all that he could say
was already said.

"Do not go, Ulysses," sighed a plaintive voice. "Listen to me!... It
concerns your life."

The fear that he might get away made her pull herself together with
dolorous groans and this movement accelerated the flow of blood.... The
pillow continued drinking it in like a thirsty meadow.

An irresistible compassion like that which he might feel for any
stranger abandoned in the midst of the street, made the sailor draw
back, his eyes fixed on a tall crystal vase which stood upon the floor
filled with flowers. With a bang he scattered over the carpet all the
springtime bouquet, arranged a little while before by feminine hands
with the feverishness of one who counts the minutes and lives on hope.

He moistened his handkerchief in the water of the vase and knelt down
beside Freya, raising her head upon the cushion. She let the wound be
washed with the abandon of a sick creature, fixing upon her aggressor a
pair of imploring eyes, opening now for the first time.

When the blood ceased to flow, formin