t, leaned over, and
seized the blade.

It was a mistake. Lawrence was far past consciousness of what he was
doing, but his body still instinctively obeyed his will. As the weight
from his chest was eased for a moment, he writhed his body into a freer
position and his arms struck out wildly.

Philip saw his danger and raised the knife. The scene passed in a
second, but to Claire it was as if they were petrified for hours in that
position--she half-kneeling there, her arm outstretched, and Philip
astride Lawrence's body, holding the knife in midair. In that last
picture, carved upon Claire's agonized gaze, all the Spaniard's beauty
was gone forever--he was a monster, his face distorted, one eye closed,
his smile broadening into a hideous dog-like grin.

Philip's arm came down. As it did so, it was struck from above by
Lawrence's, swinging aimlessly in a wide sweep. The blade, deflected
with double force, entered deep into Philip's breast.

For just one instant an expression of angry and almost ludicrous
surprise leaped across the Spaniard's face as his teeth snapped shut.
Then his whole body twisted round violently, rolled over, and lay still
beside Lawrence's equally motionless form.

Claire tottered back into a chair, and stared at them stupidly. Silence
reigned in the cabin where there had been chaos. Slowly from under
Philip's body a red line spread to a blotch on the floor. Lawrence was
lying there, his head almost touching it.

Claire gazed and gazed, while she felt as if she must faint from the
dreadful illness which seized her. Suddenly Lawrence was sitting up, his
blackened face growing less terrible to look upon. He put his hands to
his throat, and then, as the pain in his lungs decreased, he rose
unsteadily. For a moment he balanced himself carefully, rubbing his
throat.

Then he cried hoarsely: "Claire!"

She moistened her lips with her tongue, but could not answer.

He stooped and began to feel across the floor. She saw his hands, those
sensitive hands, move toward Philip's dead body. They would be in his
blood presently.

She started forward. "Lawrence!" she screamed.

He stopped abruptly. Her tone had filled him with dread wonder.

"What is it, Claire?" he whispered.

She stood a moment, silently looking at him.

He straightened and stepped toward her, "What is it?" he demanded.

She swayed unsteadily and sank into his arms, sobbing, her body wrenched
with the agony.

"Take me outside,"