"There will be no more kicks for thee, my Angel!" the maid, peeping from a door, whispered exultingly to Fou-Chow! "Thy Marie has saved thee at last!"
* * * * *
When Verisschenzko again reached his own sitting room he paced up and down for half an hour. He was horribly agitated, and angry with himself for being so.
Denzil had been right; when it came to the point, it was a ghastly thing to have to do, to give a woman up to death—even though her crimes amply justified such action.
And what was death?
To such a one as Harietta what would death mean?
A sinking into oblivion for a period, and then a rebirth in some sphere of suffering where the first lessons of the meanings of things might be learned? That would seem to be the probable working of the law—so that she might eventually obtain a soul.
He must not speculate further about her though, he must keep his nerve.
And his own life—what would it now become? Would the spirit of freedom, stirring in his beloved country, arrive at any good? Or would the red current of revolution, once let loose, swamp all reason and flow in rivers of blood?
He would be powerless to help if he let weakness overmaster him now.