in the little room was the only sound that came from one of
the grimmest battle-fields from which the soul of a woman ever emerged
alive.

To the first rush of cowardly tears Mary had yielded utterly. She had
fallen across the high-puffed feather mattress of the bed, shivering in
humble gratitude at her escape from the horror of blindness. The grip
of his claw-like fingers on her throat came back to her now in sickening
waves. The blood was still trickling from the wound which his nails had
made when she tore them loose in her first mad fight for breath.

She lifted her body and breathed deeply to make sure her throat was
free. God in heaven! Could she ever forget the hideous sinking of body
and soul down into the depths of the black abyss! She had seen the face
of Death and it was horrible. Life, warm and throbbing, was sweet. She
loved it. She hated Death.

Yes--she was a coward. She knew it now, and didn't care.

She sprang to her feet with sudden fear. He might attack her again to
make sure that her soul had been completely crushed.

She crept to the door and felt its edges.

"Yes, thank God, there's a place for the bar!" She shivered.

She ran her trembling fingers carefully along the rough logs and found
it in the corner. She slipped it cautiously into the iron sockets,
staggered to the bed and dropped in grateful assurance of safety for the
moment. She buried her face in the pillow to fight back the sobs. How
great her fall! She could crawl on her hands and knees to Jane Anderson
now and beg for protection. The last shred of pretense was gone. The
bankrupt soul stood naked and shivering, the last rag torn from pride.

What a miserable fight she had made, too, when put to the test! Ella had
at least proved herself worthy to live. The scrub-woman had risen in the
strength of desperation and killed the beast who had maimed her. She had
only sunk a limp mass of shivering, helpless cowardice and fled from the
room whining and pleading for mercy.

She could never respect herself again. The scene came back in vivid
flashes. His eyes, glowing like two balls of blue fire, froze the blood
in her veins--his voice the rasping cold steel of a file. And this
coarse, ugly beast had held her in the spell of love. She had clung to
him, kissed him in rapture and yielded herself to him soul and body. And
he had gripped her delicate throat and choked her into insensibility,
dropping her limp form from his hands like a stra