The soul of Thessalie Dunois was very near to its escape, now, brightening, glistening within its unconscious chrysalis, stretching its glorious limbs and wings; preparing to arise from its spectral tenement and soar aloft to its myriad sisters, where they swarmed glittering in the zenith.
Had it not been for the knife lying beside her on the grass—the blade very bright in the starlight—truly the youthful soul of Thessalie had been sped.
At the edge of the Gerhardts’ pine woods, Barres, at fault, baffled, furious, out of breath and glaring around him in the dark, sullenly gave up the hopeless chase, turned in his tracks, and came back. Thessalie, lying in Dulcie’s arms, unclosed her eyes and looked up at him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling and bending over her.
“Yes ... Jim came.”
Westmore’s voice was shaky.
“We worked her arms—Dulcie and I—started respiration. She was nearly gone. That beast strangled her——”
“I lost him in those woods below. Who was he?”
“Ferez Bey!”