"Ha-ha," she laughed. "An idle question to ask of Hal Morgan. Are ye so little informed of a man known to your countrymen from Madrid to Panama?"
"And where are you?"
"Where am I? Where indeed, but in the stateroom of my Lady Isobel, who, if I mistake not, is still intractable. We will try the water-cure, for once more." She lifted her face to the ceiling and called: "On deck there. A bucket o' water. Send it below by the steward."
As though the order were obeyed, she stepped to the kitchen-door, just beyond which was the sink; and from this she lifted at arm's length—a feat of strength impossible to her when awake—the pail of water which always stood there. Turning toward him she swung it backward, one hand supporting it, the other gripping the bottom edge, and would have deluged him had he not spoken. "Wait," he said, sternly. "The water-cure will not avail."
Her eyes wavered before his steady gaze, and she slowly lowered the pail to the floor. For a moment it seemed that she would waken, or at least lapse into softer mood; for her features grew composed, and her eyes lost their glitter; but they rested on the knife, and immediately hardened.
"Then, here's to the end o' it," she said, impatiently, and springing forward she seized it, then with another bound sidewise, she reached Beverton and plunged the knife in his shoulder.
It was done so swiftly that he had not time to dodge, and he sank, weak and nerveless under the blow, the knife slipping from her hand and remaining in the wound. Looking up with failing eyes, he beheld her standing with arms listless by her side, the tension gone from her face, and her gaze wandering mildly about the room.
"Grace," he gasped, "you've killed me. Wake up!"
The last was a whisper, but she heard it; and Beverton's last remembrance before he fainted was of her piercing scream as she wakened and looked down upon him.