“No, no!” shrieked Lucille. “Help, Frank! You loved me once.”
“Ha! ha!” cried the man, unfolding his arms, and glaring at Frank. “Another lover! Poor wretch, I pity you. She has wrecked you as she wrecked me.”
“No, no,” cried the wretched woman hoarsely. “Help! help!”
“There is no help, woman,” thundered the man. “The end has come. Monsieur, I claim the right of punishment. I am her husband. Bah! you can do nothing. It is her fate!”
“And so,” he continued, as he turned his terrible eyes on the shrinking woman, “you saw me away there yonder, and fled here. Fool! I knew you would come here to steal away my little Lucille—curse you! Why did I let her bear your name? You would have stolen her away, not that you loved her—you never loved, you cannot—and it was to plant another sting, another poisoned arrow in the breast of the poor trusting wretch who loved you, idolized you, and committed crime for your sake. But you could not escape me longer. I followed you from yonder town, I followed you step by step till I have you here before me dying—do you hear, wretch—dying before my eyes.”
“No, no, for pity’s sake!” she shrieked, her thin voice hardly rising above the roar of the coming tide. “Frank, call for help, he will murder me!”
“Yes—call, monsieur, call loud. There is none to hear. No one can help her now. This is the time for which I prayed in the cold, silent dungeon at Clairvaux—for which I prayed as I toiled, and it has come—come at last. Lucille, dearest wife—ah, how beautiful you are—will you embrace me once again? Thus, with the knife between us, the hilt to my breast, the point to thine? Shall we clasp each other in our arms once more, or shall I wait and see the waves slowly rise, and rise, and rise till they sweep above your head?”
She uttered no sound now for the moment, but kept her eyes fixed upon him, while Onslow strove vainly to call for help—to go to the woman’s aid, but every nerve seemed chained, and he could only gaze down as the man glided round the rock which parted him from his wife, holding the knife-hilt against his breast.
Then, heard above the roar of the waves, Lucille’s voice rang out inarticulately as she still clung there, her back to the rock, her arms outstretched. It was the cry of the rat driven to the corner from which there is no escape, and in his agony Onslow lay there, watching the dénouement of the tragedy, perfectly helpless to save.