Chapter IV: Part 4

He hurled himself, as though to snatch it from my hand. But I lifted the point and lunged, extending myself almost to the boards of the stage. As once before, I felt the flesh tear before my blade. The slender spike of metal went in, in, until the hilt thudded against his breast-bone.

No sound from audience or actors, no motion. We made a tableau, myself stretched out at lunge, Varduk transfixed, the other two gazing in sudden aghast wonder.

For one long breath's space my victim stood like a figure of black stone, with only his white face betraying anything of life and feeling. His deep eyes, gone dark as a winter night, dug themselves into mine. I felt once again the intolerable weight of his stare--yet it was not threatening, not angry even. The surprize ebbed from it, and the eyes and the sad mouth softened into a smile. Was he forgiving me? Thanking me?...

* * * * *

Sigrid found her voice again, and screamed tremulously. I released the cane-hilt and stepped backward, automatically. Varduk fell limply upon his face. The silver blade, standing out between his shoulders, gleamed red with blood. Next moment the red had turned dull black, as though the gore was a millennium old. Varduk's body sagged. It shrank within its rich, gloomy garments. It crumbled.

The curtain had fallen. I had not heard its rumble of descent, nor had Sigrid, nor the stupefied Davidson. From beyond the folds came only choking silence. Then Pursuivant's ready voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen, a sad accident has ended the play unexpectedly--tragically. Through the fault of nobody, one of the players has been fatally----"

I heard no more. Holding Sigrid in my arms I told her, briefly and brokenly, the true story of _Ruthven_ and its author. She, weeping, gazed fearfully at the motionless black heap.

"The poor soul!" she sobbed. "The poor, poor soul!"

Jake, leaving his post by the curtain-ropes, had walked on and was leading away the stunned, stumbling Davidson.

I still held Sigrid close. To my lips, as if at the bidding of another mind and memory, came the final lines of _Manfred_:

"He's gone--his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight--Whither? I dread to think--but he is gone."

THE END