“It’s all over, thank God.”
She came in to him, an impetuous passionate figure, arms spread, eyes alight.
“Oh, my Paul!”
Her emotion was like a flood of rain, a perfume, some softening human passion after those moments of savagery and bloody sweat. She ran to Brent and Paul caught her. Her head was on his shoulder; she trembled; she clutched him with tender hands; her body seemed to warm itself against his.
“Oh, my Paul, we are saved!”
“Ma chérie.”
Then she broke down, and with a passion that went to Paul’s heart. He was human once more, a decent, gentle fellow; the beast was dead; her tears seemed to cleanse him.
“It was my fault, my foolishness. I left the pistol lying by the window, and he must have been watching. He threw it across the street into the ruins. It need never have happened.”
Brent held her head in the hollow of one hand, and looked down into her wet face.
“Well, it has happened. Perhaps it was better that it should happen, once and for all.”