His arm is stretched almost to dislocation of its joints—the sinews drawn tight as a bow-string, and still his fingers clutch firmly to the branch, lapped like iron round it.
His cheeks are colourless; his jaws have dropped till the lips are agape, displaying his white teeth; his eyes protrude as if about to start forth from their sockets.
And yet out of these wild eyes one more glance is given to the glade—one more sweep among the trunks standing around it.
What was seen in that last glaring look?
Was it the form of a fair girl dimly outlined under the shadow of the trees? or was it only that same form conjured up by a fancy flickering on the edge of eternity?
No matter now. It is too late. Even if Lena were there she would not be in time to save him. Nature, tortured to the last throe, can hold out no longer. She relaxes the grasp of Pierre Robideau’s hand, and the next moment he is seen hanging under the branch, with the tightened noose around his neck, and his tongue protruding between his lips, livid with the dark mantling of death!