“Why do you rush in like a storm, Goliath?” said Morok.
“There’s a pretty storm in the house; they are beginning to get impatient, and are calling out like madmen. But if that were all!”
“Well, what else?”
“Death will not be able to play this evening.”
Morok turned quickly around. He seemed uneasy. “Why so?” he exclaimed.
“I have just seen her! she’s crouching at the bottom of her cage; her ears lie so close to her head, she looks as if they had been cut off. You know what that means.”
“Is that all?” said Morok, turning to the glass to complete his head dress.
“It’s quite enough; she’s in one of her tearing fits. Since that night in Germany, when she ripped up that old hack of a white horse, I’ve not seen her look so savage! her eyes shine like burning candles.”
“Then she must have her fine collar on,” said Morok, quietly.
“Her fine collar?”