Audrey

Her face was raised to the boxes, and it seemed as though her dark eyes

sought one there. Then, suddenly, she swerved. There were men between her

and Haward. She raised her hand, and they fell back, making for her a

path. Haward, bewildered, started forward, but her cry was not to him. It

was to the figure just behind him,--the cloaked figure whose hand grasped

the hunting-knife which from the stage, as she had looked to where stood

her lover, she had seen or divined. "Jean! Jean Hugon!" she cried.

Involuntarily the trader pushed toward her, past the man whom he meant to

stab to the heart. The action, dragging his cloak aside, showed the

half-raised arm and the gleaming steel. For many minutes the knife had

been ready. The play was nearly over, and she must see this man who had

stolen her heart, this Haward of Fair View, die. Else Jean Hugon's

vengeance were not complete. For his own safety the maddened half-breed

had ceased to care. No warning cried from the stage could have done aught

but precipitate the deed, but now for the moment, amazed and doubtful, he

turned his back upon his prey.

In that moment the Audrey of the woods, a creature lithe and agile and

strong of wrist as of will, had thrown herself upon him, clutching the

hand that held the knife. He strove to dash her from him, but in vain; the

house was in an uproar; and now Haward's hands were at his throat,

Haward's voice was crying to that fair devil, that Audrey for whom he had

built his house, who was balking him of revenge, whose body was between

him and his enemy! Suddenly he was all savage; as upon a night in Fair

View house he had cast off the trammels of his white blood, so now.

An access of furious strength came to him; he shook himself free; the knife

gleamed in the air, descended.... He drew it from the bosom into which he

had plunged it, and as Haward caught her in his arms, who would else have

sunk to the floor, the half-breed burst through the horror-stricken

throng, brandishing the red blade and loudly speaking in the tongue of the

Monacans. Like a whirlwind he was gone from the house, and for a time none

thought to follow him.

They bore her into the small white house, and up the stair to her own

room, and laid her upon the bed. Dr. Contesse came and went away, and came

again. There was a crowd in Palace Street before the theatre. A man

mounting the doorstep so that he might be heard of all, said clearly, "She

may live until dawn,--no longer." Later, one came out of the house and

asked that there might be quiet. The crowd melted away, but throughout the

mild night, filled with the soft airs and thousand odors of the spring,

people stayed about the place, standing silent in the street or sitting on

the garden benches.