he
sight of my son killing yours. It may be, of course, that they will
kill each other. But what matters that? We will both look on, quite
calm and silent. When they have done with each other I will loosen
your cords. It will then be our turn. For do not think that I intend
to murder you like an assassin. No; I will place your own sword in
your hand, and then--then may the Devil and Hell judge us! . . . Men!
Take him away!"

The bound man writhed in an agony and his eyes gazed beseechingly at
his brother.

But Feodor's face remained cold as marble.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER X

Weakness

Thus, then, was the diabolical work to be completed. For Satan is not
wont to betray those who are true to him.

But had Feodor really been true to him?

Had he not, he asked himself, secretly sinned against his master and
his religion in suffering beside him a human creature who whispered a
prayer to Heaven before laying her head upon her pillow?

And was that head really on the pillow now? Was Mashinka really
asleep?

Might not she have heard all that had just been spoken--all those
frightful things which she could not hitherto have imagined? . . .
Might not she betray him?

With these thoughts rushing confusedly through his brain, Feodor took
the lamp in his hand and entered the next room. The woman lay before
him with closed eyes. He threw the lamp-light on her face. Her hands
were clasped across her breast, which gently rose and fell.

Something whispered to him that the woman must die. She might have
heard everything and might only be feigning sleep.

He set down the lamp. Placing one hand over her heart, he held in the
other a keen dagger, so that its point just touched her breast. Had
but a single quickened beat betrayed that she was aware of the danger
so near her, the weapon would have pierced her heart. But Mashinka lay
perfectly still.

Presently a smile flitted across her face, and her lips began to
mutter words as sleepers often do in dreams.

"Do not tickle me so with the blade of grass, Shasha," she murmured
coyly.

The Apostle of Dago had not the heart to drive the blade of steel into
her bosom.

But something within him admonished him.

"Thou art not wholly mine," said the voice; "a single good feeling yet
lingers within thee! By it thou art corrupted--thou art lost!"

Yet he could not kill her.

He consoled himself with the thought that she must certainly have been
asleep and could,