voice--Christine's--singing.

His face quieted, and his body came to its natural pose again, though his
eyes retained an active malice. He turned to go.

"Remember what I tell you," said Ferrol: "if you publish that lie, you'll
not live to hear it go about. I mean what I say." Blood showed upon his
lips, and a tiny little stream flowed down the corner of his mouth.
Whenever he felt that warm fluid on his tongue he was certain of his
doom, and the horror of slowly dying oppressed him, angered him. It
begot in him a desire to end it all. He had a hatred of suicide; but
there were other ways. "I'll have your life, or you'll have mine. I'm
not to be played with," he added.

The sentences were broken by coughing, and his handkerchief was wet and
red.

"It is no concern of the world," answered Shangois, stretching up his
throat, for he still felt the pressure of Ferrol's fingers--"only of the
girl and her brother. The girl--I saved her once before from your friend
Vanne Castine, and I will save her from you--but, yes! It is nothing to
the world, to Bonaventure, that you are a robber; it is everything to
her. You are all robbers--you English--cochons!"

He opened the door and went out. Ferrol was about to follow him, but he
had a sudden fit of weakness, and he caught up a pillow, and, throwing it
on the chest where Shangois had sat, stretched himself upon it. He lay
still for quite a long time, and presently fell into a doze. In those
days no event made a lasting impression on him. When it was over it
ended, so far as concerned any disturbing remembrances of it. He was