The smile vanished. His mouth fell open.
"Wait! That sword----"
He hurled himself, as though to snatch it from my hand. But I lifted
the point and lunged, extending myself almost to the boards of the
stage. As once before, I felt the flesh tear before my blade. The
slender spike of metal went in, in, until the hilt thudded against his
breast-bone.
No sound from audience or actors, no motion. We made a tableau, myself
stretched out at lunge, Varduk transfixed, the other two gazing in
sudden aghast wonder.
For one long breath's space my victim stood like a figure of black
stone, with only his white face betraying anything of life and feeling.
His deep eyes, gone dark as a winter night, dug themselves into mine.
I felt once again the intolerable weight of his stare--yet it was not
threatening, not angry even. The surprize ebbed from it, and the eyes
and the sad mouth softened into a smile. Was he forgiving me? Thanking
me?...
* * * * *
Sigrid found her voice again, and screamed tremulously. I released the
cane-hilt and stepped backward, automatically. Varduk fell limply upon
his face. The silver blade, standing out between his shoulders, gleamed
red with blood. Next moment the red had turned dull black, as though
the gore was a millennium old. Varduk's body sagged. It shrank within
its rich, gloomy garments. It crumbled.
The curtain had fallen. I had not heard its rumble of descent, nor had
Sigrid, nor the stupefied Davidson. From beyond the folds came only
choking silence. Then Pursuivant's ready voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a sad accident has ended the play
unexpectedly--tragically. Through the fault of nobody, one of the
players has been fatally----"
I heard no more. Holding Sigrid in my arms I told her, briefly and
brokenly, the true story of _Ruthven_ and its author. She, weeping,
gazed fearfully at the motionless black heap.
"The poor soul!" she sobbed. "The poor, poor soul!"
Jake, leaving his post by the curtain-ropes, had walked on and was
leading away the stunned, stumbling Davidson.
I still held Sigrid close. To my lips, as if at the bidding of another
mind and memory, came the final lines of _Manfred_:
"He's gone--his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight--Whither? I dread
to think--but he is gone."