(Annie Reeve Aldrich: For Short Stories.)
It is deep winter. A fierce storm shakes the windows in their casement.
Melting flakes were in his beard when he entered.
Within is no light save from the fire; a dull, steady glow that bathes
the room in soft rose. There are lordly furnishings; about the floor
great cushions; skins of the leopard and lion.
There is a screen.
_My God, do not let me look behind that screen!_
Hush! Where was I? Yes, on the furs before the fire, my head, with
loosened hair, pillowed on the rug at his feet.
It was pleasant to listen to the raging of the wind.
He had come to tell me of his approaching marriage--a marriage of love,
he said, and laughed.
It was then all the room seemed to burst into a firelight of blood;
all the sounds of hell rang in my ears; and my wrist had the sudden
strength of ten men to drive the blade in his breast. His great muscles
and firm flesh gave momentary resistance to the point, and then, what
joy to feel them yield, and the steel slip deftly in!
The wet crimson poured over my fingers into the creases of the palms he
had kissed, and the dimples he had counted.
He rolled, so much clay, onto the white furs, and see, I have drawn
the screen in front of him ... for he is still laughing ... the happy
bridegroom.