her own blood; there was a warm,
sickly smell of salt in the air, and Constans's hand was wet when he
fetched it away. Who had done this thing, and why?

He went on, with every sense on edge. He could hardly have mistaken his
way now, for the door before him stood partly ajar, and there was a
light in the room; Constans guessed that it must be the first of the
private apartments belonging to Quinton Edge.

He looked in. The room was a large one and luxuriously furnished. An
ancient hanging-lamp of brass hung from the ceiling, diffusing a soft
radiance; the curtains that concealed the deep window-seat were closely
drawn, and, had Constans made his observations with more care, he might
have noticed that something moved behind them, an unwieldy bulk that
gathered itself as though for a spring.

But he took no account of these smaller things, his eyes being full of
Esmay only, and surely that was she who stood there in the shelter of
Quinton Edge's arms; now she half turned her head, the better to look
into her lord's face, and Constans could trace the outline of her
profile--the upper lip, so deliciously short, and the exquisite curve
of her throat. His breath came quick as he watched them, and his grasp
tightened upon the rapier hilt. So she had deceived him, after all; she
had played the traitress from the very beginning. Twice, now, she had
smiled into his eyes and sold him for some piece of trumpery--a bracelet
of carbuncles or a kiss from Quinton Edge's lips. Well, he could kill
them both, and almost at a single stroke, since they stood with their
backs to the doorway and were quite unconscious of his presence. But,
upon further thought, he determined to wreak positive vengeance on
Quinton Edge alone. It was shame to strike a woman, and unnecessary--it
would be her punishment to live.

Dispassionately he reviewed his decision and reaffirmed it; it was now
the time for action. But he had delayed just a moment too long. Before
he could take that first forward step the one who waited behind the
window-curtains had passed before him, an ungainly figure of a man, who
limped upon one knee and whose black beard fell like a curtain before
his cruel mouth and lips--Kurt, whom men called the "Knacker." A knife
was in his hand, and he struck once and twice at Quinton Edge.

"This for the thirty lashes at Middenmass!" he shouted; "and this----"

But here Constans's rapier passed through his throat, and he fell back,
gurgli