He cried, thickly, agonizedly:
"I'm free of you! Free, I tell you! I'm going back to wife—to child—to home—to honor! I'm free!"
Her lips curved. Her breast heaved. Her arms glowed. And her eyes were on his…. He came a step nearer—another step—yet another…. He was nearer, now…. She leaned back a little, in the great chair….
He was not a man, now. He was a Thing, and that Thing was of her. Hands hung slack, loose, at his sides; jaw drooped; lips were pendulous. Only, in his eyes was that light that she, and she alone, knew how to kindle…. He was hers, soul, and body, and brain….
Then, suddenly, came of the things that are Unknown. Perhaps came to his ears a voice—to his heart an aid unknown…. His hands stiffened a little…. And then he leaped upon her.
She saw; she had half risen…. Back they went over the great chair, his body on hers, his fingers clutching at her rounded throat. For a moment, they writhed. She screamed, once…. Then, suddenly, his twisted fingers relaxed…. His head fell back. His body, inert, rolled from hers, turned again as it struck the chair, and fell, a thing crushed and dead, at her feet….
She rose, breathing hoarsely from between red, parted lips. There were marks upon her throat…. Perhaps, again, she had overestimated her power…. And yet it were not to be sure of this….
Her skirt-hem lay beneath his body. She stooped, lithely, disengaging it. His fingers clutched torn petals of crimson roses…. She looked…. Then vivid lips parted, and she laughed, a little.
Of that which is known, she knew but little; of that which is unknown, she knew much. Perhaps it is a small thing, after all, to wreck a life.
* * * * *