strangling, he lifted his fingers to his throat.

Voices were calling for water, to wait for the doctor, to wait for the
police. But I thought I understood.

Still doubting him, still unbelieving, ashamed of my own credulity, I
tore at his collar, and my fingers closed upon a package of oiled silk.

I stooped, and with my teeth ripped it open, and holding before him the
slips of paper it contained, tore them into tiny shreds.

The eyes smiled at me with cunning, with triumph, with deep content.

It was so like the Schnitzel I had known that I believed still he might
have strength enough to help me.

"Who did this?" I begged. "I'll hang him for it! Do you hear me?" I
cried.

Seeing him lying there, with the life cut out of him, swept me with a
blind anger, with a need to punish.

"I'll see they hang for it. Tell me!" I commanded. "Who did this?"

The eyes, now filled with weariness, looked up and the lips moved
feebly.

"My own people," he whispered.

In my indignation I could have shaken the truth from him. I bent closer.