udolf Rassendyll. He
heard or felt me, and turned his eyes for an instant. I do not know
what my face said, but he shook his head and turned back to Rupert. The
revolver, held still in the man's own hand, was at his heart. The motion
ceased, the point was reached.

I looked again at Rupert. Now his face was easier; there was a slight
smile on his lips; he flung back his comely head and rested thus against
the wainscoting; his eyes asked a question of Rudolf Rassendyll. I
turned my gaze to where the answer was to come, for Rudolf made none in
words. By the swiftest of movements he shifted his grasp from Rupert's
wrist and pounced on his hand. Now his forefinger rested on Rupert's and
Rupert's was on the trigger. I am no soft-heart, but I laid a hand on
his shoulder. He took no heed; I dared do no more. Rupert glanced at
me. I caught his look, but what could I say to him? Again my eyes were
riveted on Rudolf's finger. Now it was crooked round Rupert's, seeming
like a man who strangles another.

I will not say more. He smiled to the last; his proud head, which
had never bent for shame, did not bend for fear. There was a sudden
tightening in the pressure of that crooked forefinger, a flash, a noise.
He was held up against the wall for an instant by Rudolf's hand; when
that was removed he sank, a heap that looked all head and knees.

But hot on the sound of the discharge came a shout and an oath from
Bernenstein. He was hurled away from the door, and through it burst
Rischenheim and the whole score after him. They were jostling one
another and crying out to know what passed and where the king was. High
over all the voices, coming from the back of the throng, I heard the cry
of the girl Rosa. But as soon as they were in the room, the same spell
that had fastened Bernenstein and me to inactivity imposed its numbing
power on them also. Only Rischenheim gave a sudden sob and ran forward
to where his cousin lay. The rest stood staring. For a moment Rudolf
eyed them. Then, without a word, he turned his back. He put out the
right hand with which he had just killed Rupert of Hentzau, and took the
letter from the mantelpiece. He glanced at the envelope, then he opened
the letter. The handwriting banished any last doubt he had; he tore
the letter across, and again in four pieces, and yet again in smaller
fragments. Then he sprinkled the morsels of paper into the blaze of the
fire. I believe that every eye in the room followed them a