She came towards him. "Am I not beautiful?" she urged. She took his
hand. His eye swam with hers. But his look was different from hers,
though he could not know that. His was the madness of a man in a dream;
hers was a painful thing. The Furies dwelt in her. She softly lifted
his hand above his head, and whispered: "Swear." And she kissed him.
Her lips were icy, though he did not think so. The blood tossed in his
veins. He swore: but, doing so, he could not conceive all that would be
required of him. He was hers, body and soul, and she had resolved on a
grim thing. . . . In the darkness, they left the hut and passed into
the woods, and slowly up through the hills.

Heldon returned to his home that night to find it empty. There were no
servants. There was no wife. Her cat and dog lay dead upon the
hearthrug. Her clothing was cut into strips. Her wedding-dress was a
charred heap on the fireplace. Her jewellery lay molten with it. Her
portrait had been torn from its frame.

An intolerable fear possessed him. Drops of sweat hung on his forehead
and his hands. He fled towards the town. He bit his finger-nails till
they bled as he passed the house in the pines. He lifted his arm as if
the flappings of The Crimson Flag were blows in his face.

At last he passed Tom Liffey's hut. He saw Pierre, coming from it. The
look on the gambler's face was one, of gloomy wonder. His fingers
trembled as he lighted a cigarette, and that was an unusual thing. The
form of Heldon edged within the light. Pierre dropped the match and said
to him,--"You are looking for your wife?"

Heldon bowed his head. The other threw open the door of the hut. "Come
in here," he said. They entered. Pierre pointed to a woman's hat on the