It is the Count Laval. He is seeking her, seeking her everywhere. Horns are peering out from under his scarlet cap, and he has long claws.
Now she is fleeing through the rose garden, faster, faster, ever faster. But he is gaining upon her. From bosquet to bosquet, from thicket to thicket; she hears his approaching steps. Now she can almost feel his breath upon her neck.
At last he has overtaken her.
Now he is circling round her, nearer and nearer, extending his hands towards her, while she follows his movement with horror-stricken eyes.
But her strength, her body, are paralyzed.
As his hands close round her throat, his eyes gloating with dull malice, she covers her face with her hands and falls with a shriek.
And as she lies there before him, dead, he looks down upon her with a strange smile upon his lips and casts his scarlet mantle over her.
Once more Hellayne is in the throes of a swoon.