Sometimes Ewing had his arm
over his face, and she felt that he would never take it away--move on
thus forever, like a figure in an anguished dream.

Constantly beside her thoughts, like a little refrain, went the
remembrance that she had brought him there, torn him from his youth and
splendid dreams to give him to this--she the betrayer! The fever waxed,
the tortured blood trampled in her head like hurrying hoofs.

But she could not strike Teevan, extinguish him with blows, and she set
herself again to play the beggar. And she could not beg across the room.
Bit by bit she crept to the entreated one, her great eyes full of flame
and fear, and laid pitiful hands on his shoulder. Still the shaken head
met her, the icy smile, the dulled eyes.

"No good talking, Nell! No good! You mortify me, my word you do. Demand
something great, something to task a man; ask me----"

Again he picked up the dagger with a return to that extravagant air of
the sighing gallant.

"--here, I point it to my heart, see! A mere thrust--your beautiful hand
is still equal to it. I'd be proud of the blow. I'd give you my life
gladly--but not my self-respect. You're too stunning a woman, Nell, to
waste yourself on that cub--a woman to die for indeed. You were never
finer than at this moment." In the excess of his emotion he threw an arm
about her waist. She started back but he held her.

"Never finer, Nell, on my soul--too fine for that damned----"

She put out her hands in an instinctive, shuddering movement of
repulsion. Still he clung to her, muttering his insupportable phrases.
He clung and she could not release herself without doing what she had
thought was impossible--exert her unused hands in striking, thrusting,
beating off. She hesitated: she did not like to touch him. He looked
very small and low in his chair. How low he seemed from her dizzy
height! And yet he held so well. His voice came faintly, too, as if from
afar, floating up faint and hateful. So he would hold Ewing and slay him
with his voice. He was playing with the dagger again and proffering his
heart with maudlin eyes. Prisoning her still with his right arm, he took
her hand in his left and clumsily set it on the dagger's hilt.

"It would be a sweet death, Nell. Press home!" He drew her closer, so
that she staggered on his shoulder. "Gad! your eyes are fine. What a
woman you are! Too great, Nell, for that beaten whelp, even before he
took to your sister----"

She gave