the broken rocks. The rope trailing from its waist had been twisted by
the current round the mooring post, and had held it back whilst the tide
had ebbed away from it. The right elbow had fallen in a chink in the
rock, leaving the hand outstretched toward Sarah, with the open palm
upward as though it were extended to receive hers, the pale drooping
fingers open to the clasp.

All that happened afterwards was never quite known to Sarah Sanson.
Whenever she would try to recollect there would become a buzzing in her
ears and a dimness in her eyes, and all would pass away. The only thing
that she could remember of it all--and this she never forgot--was Eric's
breathing heavily, with his face whiter than that of the dead man, as he
muttered under his breath:

'Devil's help! Devil's faith! Devil's price!'




The Burial of the Rats


Leaving Paris by the Orleans road, cross the Enceinte, and, turning to
the right, you find yourself in a somewhat wild and not at all savoury
district. Right and left, before and behind, on every side rise great
heaps of dust and waste accumulated by the process of time.

Paris has its night as well as its day life, and the sojourner who
enters his hotel in the Rue de Rivoli or the Rue St. Honore late at
night or leaves it early in the morning, can guess, in coming near