He stood immovable, and uttered not a word.
“Mercy—stay the axe—I will save him—I will save him.” And she clung, shrieking, about his feet.
“Save him—nought can save him—see there.”
He dragged her to the window, and she looked wildly forth.
Then she turned from the window a changed woman. No tears. No horror. Smiling even a grim smile.
The noble stepped back in wonder. Then he thought that she was mad. But no.
Proud—erect—she stood before him.
“Have I not said—‘Vengeance shall be mine’—in thy tent, where thou didst cut my flesh with cords. Vengeance IS mine. Thou look’st towards the window. Gazing through it—I say—Vengeance is mine. He is dead—thou sayest he is dead. Hear!—thou knowest me to be the gipsey who robbed thy father of thy younger brother. Ah well, I am indeed she—and that brother,—rejoice in the act,—and that brother—look again through the window—mark that body. Thou hast slain thy brother. Shrink—shrink!—Vengeance is mine. Hadst thou but have let him wake me that he might say farewell, I should have pitied thee and saved him—but thou didst steal him from me while I slept. Dead!—he will carry thy murderous name with him. Have I not said, ‘Vengeance shall be mine?’”
And then her troubles were over, and the last she saw on earth was the bleeding body of him she called, and whom she loved, as a son.