“Go, little one,” he said, grinning into the spade-face. “You have no more poison; that is finished!”
He put the writhing head under his heel, and Mirabelle shut her eyes and put her hands to her ears. When she looked again, the man was standing by the door, clinging to the post and slipping with every frantic effort to keep himself erect.
He grinned at her again; this man of murder, who had made his last kill.
“Pardon, gracious lady,” he said thickly, and went down on his knees, his head against the door, his body swaying slowly from side to side, and finally tumbled over.
She heard Oberzohn’s harsh voice from the floor above. He was calling Gurther, and presently he appeared in the doorway, and there was a pistol in his hand.
“So!” he said, looking down at the dying man.
And then he saw the snake, and his face wrinkled. He looked from Mirabelle to the girl on the bed, went over and examined her, but did not attempt to release the strap. It was Mirabelle who did that; Mirabelle who sponged the bruised face and loosened the dress.
So doing, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Come,” said Oberzohn.
“I’m staying here with Joan, until——”