It was no heavier than some which I had used before, and to good purpose.”
Again she paused, and I saw her lips trembling. Before my mind’s eye the picture arose which I had seen from Harley’s window, the picture of Colonel Juan Menendez walking in the moonlight along the path to the sun-dial, with halting steps, with clenched fists, but upright as a soldier on parade. Walking on, dauntlessly, to his execution. Out of a sort of haze, which seemed to obscure both sight and hearing, I heard Madame speaking again.
“He turned his head toward me. He threw me a kiss—and I fired. Did you think a woman lived who could perform such a deed, eh? If you did not think so, it is because you have never looked into the eyes of one who loved with her body, her mind, and with her soul. I think, yes, I think I went mad. The rifle I remember I replaced. But I remember no more. Ah!”
She sighed in a resigned, weary way, untwining her arm from about Val Beverley, and falling back upon her pillows.
“It is all written here,” she said; “every word of it, my friends, and signed at the bottom. I am a murderess, but it was a merciful deed. You see, I had a plan of which Juan knew nothing. This was my plan.” She pointed to the heap of manuscript. “I would give him relief from his agonies, yes. For although he was an evil man, I loved him better than life. I would let him die happy, thinking his revenge complete. But others to suffer? No, no! a thousand times no! Ah, I am so tired.”
She took up the little medicine bottle, poured its contents into the glass, and emptied it at a draught.
Paul Harley, as though galvanized, sprang to his feet.
