ETCHINGS: AFTERWARD
(Annie Reeve Aldrich: For Short Stories.)
It is deep winter. A fierce storm shakes the windows in their casement. Melting flakes were in his beard when he entered.
Within is no light save from the fire; a dull, steady glow that bathes the room in soft rose. There are lordly furnishings; about the floor great cushions; skins of the leopard and lion.
There is a screen.
My God, do not let me look behind that screen!
Hush! Where was I? Yes, on the furs before the fire, my head, with loosened hair, pillowed on the rug at his feet.
It was pleasant to listen to the raging of the wind.
He had come to tell me of his approaching marriage—a marriage of love, he said, and laughed.
It was then all the room seemed to burst into a firelight of blood; all the sounds of hell rang in my ears; and my wrist had the sudden strength of ten men to drive the blade in his breast. His great muscles and firm flesh gave momentary resistance to the point, and then, what joy to feel them yield, and the steel slip deftly in!