As the meaning of his words flashed upon the boy, he flung himself forward, his fingers seizing his throat.
“Go thou before me!” he gasped. “Liar and murderer, see who it is that kills you! Look deep in my eyes! I, Ferad Steccho, send you out of life! Think on my mother!” His fingers choked the thin, white neck of Jurka relentlessly, but the Count fought back with all the advantage of a trained body and mind. They fell on the couch together, locked in a death-grapple. Almost without sound, save for the stifled breathing, they fought until Jurka wrenched himself free, and staggered back.
“Excellenza!” Steccho breathed, his face the very mask of hate, “I have heard the truth. They are dead these five months, my mother cut down by famine, my sister—Oh, God, hear me!—Maryna is dead, a woman thing thrown to your soldiers to be done to death at their pleasure; you hear me! You swore to me by the cross you would protect them, and you knew this all the time you lied to me. You knew when you sent me last night to rob and kill for you.”
“If I call for help, what then?” sneered Jurka. “I will swear you robbed me.”
“Call! Call on your queen to save you.” The boy leaped upon him like a panther and bore him to the floor, his bare hands gripping remorselessly at the white, slim throat. He bent over the mottled, horror-stricken face, forcing the glazing eyes to stare into his, and laughed softly. “See, I could kill you with the knife, but I will have you look at me, so, straight to the door of death. Excellenza, the rubies are red. Think on the blood of the innocents you have killed, thousands and thousands. They wait for you—”
He felt the figure beneath him twist and strain with one last tremendous effort to force him off. The Count’s hands fumbled blindly, searchingly, and there came a dull report. Hardly had Steccho felt the touch of the automatic as it was pressed to his side. The pain was deadened by the joy of watching the light die out of the staring, maddened eyes. His fingers loosened their grasp unwittingly. The form of Jurka crumpled to the floor, and Steccho pressed his hands against his side, looking at them curiously. Sinking into the chair by the low table, he pulled the jewels from his pockets. They were moist and dulled. What was it Dmitri had warned him?
“They are accursed. Red for the blood of your people, pearls for the tears they have shed.”
He picked up the heavy tiara and dashed it down into the dead face upon the floor.
“Excellenza,” he whispered, “think on them, they wait for you—” His head fell forward on his breast. The lines of the wall-paper seemed to dance and entwine as life slipped from his reach. “The sun shines on the yellow castle,” he murmured huskily. “Maryna’s hair, yellow in the sun, yellow like gold, excellenza, and wet with blood.” He sighed heavily, groping for something with the seeking touch of the blind, something he had let fall when he had seized the white throat of Jurka. And suddenly there was utter silence in the room, the curious silence where there is no breath of life stirring.
Next door Dmitri paused on the steps as he closed the door behind him. In the east a glow of deepest rose flushed the mother-of-pearl clouds into shells of trembling, lambient radiance. He eyed it happily. It was a symbol, that promise of the daybreak. So in the earth-lands overseas the dawn of humanity was coming despite the upheavals of class struggles. He would come back and pack after he had returned Carlota safely to Griffeth, together with the jewels. Then he and Steccho would take the homeward way together. He glanced down the shadowy street. There was no one in sight. He entered the house by the basement door. The houseman smiled and nodded to him as he set out empty milk bottles. He mounted the stairs with a light, buoyant step and knocked at Steccho’s door. There was no response, and he pushed the door open. Something there was inside that lay close against it, impeding his entrance, and he peered around, thinking the boy had slept there in heavy exhaustion.