ps
record faces almost as accurately as the eyes of the normal person.

Ah, for one moment of that power! She tried her best. The nose, she told
herself, was straight and well modeled. The eyes, for she traced the
bony structure around them, must be large; the cheek bones high, a sign
of strength; the chin certainly square and prominent; the lips full and
the mouth rather large; the hair waving and thick; the throat large. One
by one she traced each detail and then, moving both hands rather swiftly
over the face, she strove to build the mental picture of the whole--and
she achieved one, but still it was always the young painter whom great
Rembrandt had drawn. The illusion would not go out of her mind.

An artist's hands, it is said, must be strong and sinewy. She took these
hands and felt the heavy bones of the wrist and strove to estimate the
length of the fingers. It seemed to her that this was an ideal hand for
a painter--it must be both strong and supple.

He sighed again and stirred; she caught up the weapon with feverish
haste and poised it.

"Ah, it is well," said the sleeper in his dream.

She made sure that he was indeed unconscious and then leaned low,
whispering: "Adieu, my dear."

At some happy vision he laughed softly. His breath touched her face.
Surely he could never know; he had so short a moment left for living;
perhaps this would pass into his latest dream on earth and make it
happy.

"Adieu!" she whispered again, and her lips pressed on his.

She laid the muzzle of the revolver against his temple, and, summoning
all her will power, she pressed the trigger. It seemed as if she were
pulling against it with her full strength, and yet there was no report.
Then she realized that all her might was going into an inward struggle.
She summoned to her aid the voice of the prince as he had said: "We put
a mask on nature and call it love; we name an abstraction and call it
God. _Le Dieu, c'est moi!_" She placed the revolver against the temple
of the sleeper; he stirred and disturbed the surety of her direction.
She adjusted the weapon again.

Up sprang the man, shouting: "Treason! Help!"

Then he stood silent a long moment; perhaps he was rehearsing the scene
of his seizure.

"This is death," he muttered at last, "and I am in hell. I have always
known what it would be--dark--utter and bitter loss of light."

As his hand moved, the chain rattled. He sprang back with such violence
that his lunging we