nically I looked down at the clothes I wore--the former
property of a suicide. "He was a fool," the vender of them had said,
"he killed himself."

Yes, there was no doubt of it--he was a fool. I would not follow his
example, or at least not yet. I had something to do first--something
that must be done if I could only see my way clear to it. Yes--if I
could only see my way and follow it straightly, resolutely,
remorselessly! My thoughts were confused, like the thoughts of a
fever-stricken man in delirium--the scent of the rose-leaves I held
sickened me strangely--yet I would not throw them from me; no, I would
keep them to remind me of the embraces I had witnessed! I felt for my
purse! I found and opened it, and placed the withering red petals
carefully within it. As I slipped it again in my pocket I remembered
the two leathern pouches I carried--the one filled with gold, the other
with the jewels I had intended for--HER. My adventures in the vault
recurred to me; I smiled as I recollected the dire struggle I had made
for life and liberty. Life and liberty!--of what use were they to me
now, save for one thing--revenge? I was not wanted; I was not expected
back to refill my former place on earth--the large fortune I had
possessed was now my wife's by the decree of my own last will and
testament, which she would have no difficulty in proving. But still,
wealth was mine--the hidden stores of the brigands were sufficient to
make any man more than rich for the term of his natural life. As I
considered this, a sort of dull pleasure throbbed in my veins. Money!
Anything could be done for money--gold would purchase even vengeance.
But what sort of vengeance? Such a one as I sought must be
unique--refined, relentless, and complete. I pondered deeply. The
evening wind blew freshly up from the sea; the leaves of the swaying
trees whispered mysteriously together; the nightingales warbled on with
untired sweetness; and the moon, like the round shield of an angel
warrior, shone brightly against the dense blue background of the sky.
Heedless of the passing of hours, I sat still, lost in a bewildered
reverie. "There was always a false note somewhere when he sung!" So she
had said, laughing that little laugh of hers as cold and sharp as the
clash of steel. True, true; by all the majesty of Heaven, most true!
There was indeed a false note--jarring, not so much the voice as the
music of life itself. There is stuff in all of us that will we