"Silence," the count cried. "Prepare yourself."
"You cannot hurt me now, Michæl," she laughed. Hentzi thought she looked like a young girl, splendid and triumphant with the wine of youth. "At most you can take my life. As I can never have him whom I love I do not mind. Perhaps I am a little grateful to you. Why does your hand tremble, Michæl?"
She held herself at this last moment with a brave insolence. Her head was carried high and the count knew she was laughing at him for having failed. He knew that her words were not idly spoken when she said she would die happy because her lover had escaped.
She stood there flouting him, jeering at him, this woman through whose actions his own safety was imperilled, the woman whose fascination had so long enthralled him. And he realized that although it would be his hands which would strike her to the dust yet she would be the victor.
Untrembling she looked into the black mouth of the revolver.
"Why do your hands shake?" she repeated. "Are you afraid he will come back and rescue me?"
Hentzi covered his eyes as the spurt of flame jumped at her. It was his shriek which rang out. Pauline met her death, triumphant, smiling, unafraid.