midnight. Here and there beyond in the village a light showed, and
straggling voices floated faintly towards her. For a long time no sound
came from the house. But at last she heard a laugh. At that she drew
something from her pocket, and held it firmly in her hand. Once she
turned and looked at another house far up on the hill, where lights were
burning. It was Heldon's house--her home. A sharp sound as of anguish
and anger escaped her; then she fastened her eyes on the door in front of
her.

At that moment Tom Liffey was standing with his hands on his hips looking
at Heldon's home on the hill; and he said some rumbling words, then
strode on down the road, and suddenly paused near the wife. He did not
see her. He faced the door at which she was looking, and shook his fist
at it.

"A murrain on y'r sowl!" said he, "as there's plague in y'r body, and
hell in the slide of y'r feet, like the trail of the red spider. And out
o' that come ye, Heldon, for I know y're there. Out of that, ye beast!
. . . But how can ye go back--you that's rolled in that sewer--to the
loveliest woman that ever trod the neck o' the world! Damned y' are in
every joint o' y'r frame, and damned is y'r sowl, I say, for bringing
sorrow to her; and I hate you as much for that, as I could worship her
was she not your wife and a lady o' blood, God save her!"

Then shaking his fist once more, he swung away slowly down the road.
During this the wife's teeth held together as though they were of a
piece. She looked after Tom Liffey and smiled; but it was a dreadful
smile.

"He worships me, that common man--worships me," she said. "This man who