in her
hands, and ready to do anything she asked him, had one or two
peculiarities--fondness for children and animals, and a great respect
for life--life in every grade. Would he consent to sacrifice the
coachman? And as she glanced at him, a feeling of awe came over her.
What a big, strong man this husband of hers was, and what strength he
had--strength of all kinds, physical as well as mental--if he cared to
exert it. But then he loved, worshipped, and adored her; he would never
treat her with anything but the utmost deference and kindness, no matter
what she said or did. Still, when she got ready to whisper the fatal
suggestion in his ear, her heart failed her. And then the new something
within her--that something that had already spoken and seemed inclined
to be painfully officious--once more asserted itself. The coachman was
married, he had children--four people dependent on him, four hearts that
loved him! With her it was different: no one was actually dependent on
her--there were no children now! Nothing but the memory of them!
Memory--what a hateful thing it was! She had forced them to give her
their lives; would it not be some atonement for her act if she were now
to offer hers? She made the offer--breathed it with a shuddering soul
into her husband's ears--and with a great round oath he rejected it.

"What! You! Let you be thrown to the wolves?" he roared. "No--sooner
than that, ten thousand times sooner, I will jump out! But I don't think
there is any need. Knowing there were wolves about, I brought arms. If
occasion arises we can easily account for half of them. But we shall
outdistance them yet."

He spoke the truth. Bit by bit the powerful horses drew away from the
pack, and ere the last trees of the forest were passed, the howlings
were no longer heard and all danger was at an end.

Then, and not till then, did Oscar learn what had become of the
children.

He listened to Liso's explanation in silence, and it was not until she
had finished that the surprise came. She was anticipating
commiseration--commiseration for the awful hell she had undergone. She
little guessed the struggle that was taking place beneath her husband's
seemingly calm exterior. The revelation came with an abruptness that
staggered her. "Woman!" he cried, "you are a murderess. Sooner than have
sacrificed your children you should have suffered three deaths
yourself--that is the elementary instinct of all mothers, human and
otherwise