“The girl, that is all.”
“She will feel nothing. No doubt she is half dead already. A moment, and it will be too late.”
“Nevertheless, I will not,” said de la Platière.
Ducos stamped ragingly.
“Give the word to me. She must stand her chance. For the Emperor!” he choked—then shrieked out, “Fire!”
The explosion crashed among the hills, and echoed off.
A dark mass, which writhed and settled beyond the lantern shine, seemed to excite a little convulsion of merriment in the swinging body. That twitched and shook a moment; then relaxed, and hung motionless.
THE RAVELLED SLEAVE
Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleave of care.
I should like to preface my subject with a Caractère, in the style of La Bruyère, as thus:—