Sigrid found her voice again, and screamed tremulously. I released the cane-hilt and stepped backward, automatically. Varduk fell limply upon his face. The silver blade, standing out between his shoulders, gleamed red with blood. Next moment the red had turned dull black, as though the gore was a millennium old. Varduk's body sagged. It shrank within its rich, gloomy garments. It crumbled.
The curtain had fallen. I had not heard its rumble of descent, nor had Sigrid, nor the stupefied Davidson. From beyond the folds came only choking silence. Then Pursuivant's ready voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a sad accident has ended the play unexpectedly—tragically. Through the fault of nobody, one of the players has been fatally——"
I heard no more. Holding Sigrid in my arms I told her, briefly and brokenly, the true story of Ruthven and its author. She, weeping, gazed fearfully at the motionless black heap.
"The poor soul!" she sobbed. "The poor, poor soul!"
Jake, leaving his post by the curtain-ropes, had walked on and was leading away the stunned, stumbling Davidson.
I still held Sigrid close. To my lips, as if at the bidding of another mind and memory, came the final lines of Manfred:
"He's gone—his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight—Whither? I dread to think—but he is gone."
THE END