"What is it?" he cried, guessing the fearful truth.
"The Lord's will be done."
"She killed herself?"
"Yes."
"My God! How horrible!"
He cried thus twice; it seemed as if his hair rose on his head; he heard his voice resounding in the funereal silence of the house. Then he collected himself and pushed the door.
On the pallet bed where a few night's ago he had himself slept, he saw the corpse delineated under the sheet which covered it. Through the open window entered the fresh evening air; and the flame of a wax candle burning by the bedside seemed to wish to fly away, to escape into the fragrant night.
Anania approached the bed; cautiously as if fearing to wake her, he uncovered the corpse. A handkerchief covered with spots of darkened blood, already dry, swathed the neck, passed under the chin, over the ears, and was knotted among the thick black hair. Within this tragic circle the face was drawn in grey, the mouth still contorted with the death spasm. The vitreous line of the eyes was visible through the heavy, half-shut lids.
Anania understood that she had severed the carotid artery. Horrified by the spots of blood, he at once recovered the dead face; leaving, however, the hair, which was twisted high on the pillow, partly exposed. His eyes had darkened with horror, his mouth writhed as if in mimicry of the contortion of the dead woman's lips.
"My God! my God! this is awful!" he said, wringing his hands, and twisting his fingers. "Blood! She has shed her blood! How did she do it? How was she able to do it? She has cut her throat! How horrible! How wrong, how wrong I have been. Oh! my God! No, Aunt Grathia, don't shut the window! I am stifled. It was I who bade her kill herself!"