Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
CHAPTER XXVI
THE DEATH GRIP
He stood in the middle of the stone floor, matchbox in hand, trying to decide what he must do next. As nearly as he could judge by his observations during the afternoon, and the direction of the steps and passageways, the vault was somewhere under the main group of buildings, the keep or one end of the Hall, two or three stories below the level of the chapel floor. Part of the corridor through which he had passed was hewn from the solid rock, and part was built of masonry. The wooden partition opposite him was obviously the beginning of the used part of the castle, but admitting that he could pass it, in which direction would it lead him? He feared to strike another match, for beyond the door perhaps someone might be moving. It was now, as nearly as Renwick could judge, about one o'clock in the morning. He crossed the crypt carefully and found the partition, feeling its surface, which was made of rough boards loosely nailed together. He put his eye to one of the cracks and peering in, could see nothing; but a current of warmer air which came through the slits, slightly aromatic in odor, warned him that the space beyond was surely connected with the habitable part of the castle—a wine cellar perhaps, or a storage room. He debated for a moment whether it was wise to use another light and then at last decided to take the risk, and as matches were scarce, found the ancient candle in the iron lamp, which after sputtering feebly for a moment, consented to burn. By its aid he examined the dust upon the floor of the crypt, which showed the imprint of no footsteps but his own; then the walls of the crypt, discovering immediately another door which his eyes had missed in the earlier glow of the match,—a narrow door open to the left, of thick wood, with heavy iron hinges, the flanges of which formed the braces of the door itself. He blew out the candle and put it into his pocket. Peering through the keyhole and seeing nothing, he lifted the latch and tried to open it.
His efforts proved that it had been unused for many years, for the hinges had sagged, and some of its weight rested upon the stone floor. But with an effort, he managed to move it an inch or so. Another effort swung it clear of its stone sill, and at last he managed to open it wide enough to admit the passage of his body. But with this last attempt the rusty hinges rasped horribly; and so he waited in silence, listening fearfully for any sounds in front or behind him which might indicate alertness above.
Another passage lay before him, a narrower one, which soon developed a straight flight of narrow stairs leading upwards. He stood for a moment staring, for the gloom above him seemed to lighten. He sat upon the lower step and took off his heavy boots, then crept up the stairs noiselessly, reaching a landing dimly lighted by a small slit of a window which looked out upon the night. Pausing here, he was enabled definitely to establish his position within the castle walls. Below him was the narrower gorge, opposite him the cliff upon which he had crouched this afternoon. He was beneath one end of the Hall, and from all indications, in an ancient secret passageway, the existence of which from its condition had for years been forgotten. At the landing there was a heavy wooden door upon his left. This he examined as minutely as possible by the dim light of the loophole, peering through the keyhole, from which exuded a faint odor of gasoline. It must be here that Goritz kept the car. The platform was near the level of the rampart, then. Renwick did not pause here long for he saw that the stairs turned and mounted again in the opposite direction.
Renwick felt for his automatic, and leaving his shoes on the landing by the window, again climbed into the darkness. Another landing—and before his eyes, now sensitive to the slightest lessening of the gloom, a thin thread of light crossed the narrow passage, terminating at his right in an illuminated spot upon the wall. It did not emanate as he had at first supposed, from a keyhole, but from a crevice between two stones, where the joints had turned to powder. He peered through eagerly, but his range of vision was small, covering merely a section of paneled woodwork, a mullioned window, and a chair or two. He held his breath and listened, for he fancied he heard the sound of footsteps. Yes, there they were again, the slowly moving footsteps of a man pacing to and fro—and then the footsteps halted suddenly and a voice spoke. It was that of Leo Goritz.
"Are you sure that you saw them?"
"There is no mistake. My eyes are good."
"Did they remain long?"
"For twenty minutes or so, but they saw that the thing was impossible and went away."
"The situation becomes interesting," said Goritz.
"Rather too risky, I should say," put in the other. "If the Herr Hauptmann had only taken my advice last week–"
"I never take advice. But you may have been mistaken. I can scarcely believe that Herr Windt had the skill to trace us here—unless–"
"But it was he. I was peering through the slit in the postern, not twenty feet away. I could have killed him easily."
"But twenty feet is a long distance when two hundred feet yawn beneath. Let him come. We have food enough for a siege—ah, there it is again!"
There was a significant silence between the two men, but Renwick listened the more keenly, for he heard the deep rumble, as of thunder, which had perplexed him in the afternoon—a reverberation, repeated and continued, which seemed to make the very flags beneath him tremble. But since he could hear and feel it within these solid walls, much nearer and louder, he realized now that it meant the roar of artillery—the defiant blasts of the Austrian guns at the end of the Pass, or the triumphant salvos of the Russians. And the voice of Goritz confirmed him.
"The thing has come rather sooner than I expected," he growled. "Donnerwetter! Why couldn't the Russians have put off the attack for a week!"
"And if they win the Pass–"
"Perhaps it is just as well for us if they do. Herr Windt may neglect us in the general scramble for safety."
"He is not of that sort, Herr Hauptmann."
"Then let him come. Twenty feet is a long jump even for the legs of the Windt."
Goritz laughed at his joke and then yawned sleepily.
"You may go now, Karl. Is Strohmeyer at the gate?"
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann."
"You are sure that he will not go to sleep?"
"I think not."
"The signal is one stroke of the postern bell. He understands?"
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann. Any other orders?"
"None except these. That he is on no account to fire unless attacked. But this fact is to be understood. No man is to pass into Schloss Szolnok tonight."
"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann."
The chauffeur, Karl, passed across Renwick's range of vision and the steps of Goritz resumed their pacing of the floor—more slowly now. The Englishman had been kneeling, scarcely daring to breathe, and now he wondered what he had better do next. Taking infinite pains to make no sound he investigated the wall of the Hall with his finger tips. There was a door here, a secret door, he thought, hidden from the interior of the Hall in the paneling of the wainscoting. Did Goritz know of its existence? The floor of the crypt, it was true, had shown no sign of footsteps, and the door below, Renwick was sure, had not been opened for many years. But if Goritz knew of this passage, there was a chance of his entering and finding him. Renwick dared not strike matches now, and determined to go on until he had mastered all the architectural details of the passage, and then devise some plan to reach Marishka. Balked in other directions he could return to this secret door into the Hall, and awaiting the departure of Goritz, force an entrance and trust to luck.
But there might be some other and less dangerous means of reaching Marishka. Even if he entered the Hall, he would have no idea which way to turn. Better to follow the passage to the upper floors, if it were possible, and enter above, thus creating a diversion which might add to the advantage of his surprise. But did the passage mount higher? Or was—? His advancing toes touched something solid. Bending forward, he found steps, and immediately began mounting them on all fours.
The sleeping-rooms, he had supposed, were on the two upper floors of the keep and in the buttressed building toward the south which was a part of it. This was the direction in which he was going now. He reached another landing, as nearly as he could judge by the steps he had taken, almost over the crypt, three levels below. This was the keep, then, upon his left. With pulse beating rapidly he felt for and found a wooden upright—another door. He paused and listened. There was no sound nor any light upon the other side. So he went on slowly until at a distance above him he saw the starlight coming through another loophole, the counterpart of that below the Hall, and mounted noiselessly, peering out upon the wider valley to the south. He had therefore traversed the castle from one side to the other, and was now near the top of the buttressed wing of the keep.
Breathing in deep gasps the keen night air, Renwick waited, listening, and now heard again from outside the thunderous reverberations of the battle at the head of the Pass. He had been so intent upon his mission that he had forgotten it! But now the furious character of the engagement was obvious. It was far distant, perhaps four or five miles away, and yet the wild heavens were aglow with strange flashing fires, the reflections of the bombs and star-shells which paled the ineffectual lights of the firmament. Battle! Schloss Szolnok, too, should see battle—his own with Goritz! But Renwick would take no chances this time.
The heavy reverberations rose and died away, but a fainter spatter of sounds continued, the deadly counter-melody of machine-gun and rifle fire which went on without intermission. Far below the Schloss, in the direction of the road along the Dukla, he heard the clatter of transport, and the calls of men.
All of this Renwick's mind assimilated in his moment of rest and recuperation, but beside the loophole, clearly defined by the flashes in the heavens, his searching glances made out the uprights of another door. Here, perhaps–He bent forward, listening at its cracks, and then knelt, searching for a latch or keyhole. Nothing. But as he turned his back to the loophole, shutting out the starlight, he imagined that he saw something white upon the stone flagging. He leaned forward to pick it up and found that his fingers were softly illuminated. The spot was the reflection of a dim light within the room. He put his face close to the floor and found the aperture, a small hole of irregular shape in the baseboard of the door. A candle. Someone, then, was within? He put his ear to the chink and listened. A muffled sound, faint, but agonizingly definite—a woman's sobs! Renwick straightened and then listened again. Silence. Perhaps he had been mistaken. No. There it was again—fainter now. He ran his fingers softly along the edges of the woodwork, seeking a latch, a handle, but could find none. If there were a secret spring, it was so deftly hidden that he could not discover it. But in the brief moments of his search he had decided that he must enter this room at all costs. And so rising to his feet, he gave up trying to find the secret of admittance and slowly put his weight against the woodwork. It made no sound nor yielded to his pressure. He tried it again with the same results. Then despairing, and desperate, he struck a match and ran it quickly along the jambs. The hinges were concealed, but he found signs of them at the right. To the left, then—another match—a handle, a knob—where? And then just as the third match went out he found it—a flat, iron lever which moved around a swivel, cunningly let into the woodwork. He caught it quickly in his fingers, twisted it down, and then, automatic in hand, he pushed upon the door which opened and swung inward upon its hinges.
Renwick waited for a moment in the doorway, pistol in hand, blinking at the candle upon the table, like a cat emerging from a cellar, searching the vast room for its occupant. A huge room with wainscoted walls, with heavy hangings at the windows, massive furniture, a high canopied bed–
He took a few quick steps forward into the room, for a figure clothed in soft white had started up from the bed and was staring at him with startled eyes—Marishka!
Renwick was hatless, tattered, covered with dust, his face streaked with grime and sweat, and the short beard that he wore still further transformed him. But it seemed that a look of recognition struggled with the terror in her eyes.
"You, Hugh—again!" she whispered.
A pang shot through him at the pitiful sound of her voice and at the words. Had her sufferings–
"Your spirit. It has—has been—with me often, Hugh." She went on dreamily.
"Marishka!" he whispered, crossing to her swiftly. "It is I—Hugh. It is no dream, no vision. Awake!"
She brushed an arm across her eyes like one arousing from a deep sleep, and then straightened suddenly and still uncertainly. But he caught her by the arm and brought her face close to his own so that she might see.
"I didn't die, dear. I am here in the flesh—to protect—to take you away from this place."
"Then I—I have not dreamed?"
"Not now?"
She clasped his wrists, his shoulders, his face with her hands to assure herself of the truth, and he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly.
"Marishka!" he murmured again. And then she seemed to grow heavy in his arms, repeating his name breathlessly.
He was frightened for a moment for her head drooped away from him. She looked so piteously thin and white, and her hands were ice cold.
"Marishka!" he pleaded. "Marishka."
Her eyes opened again and her smile reassured him.
"Forgive me, Hugh. The joy is almost more than I can bear."
"You are safe now," he whispered. "Safe!" And he clasped her close, holding her there in a breathless moment oblivious to their danger.
Then while she still wondered, Renwick suddenly released her, moving quickly to the door by which he had entered, and after examining the mechanism carefully, quietly closed it. Then he turned to Marishka and questioned, while still seated upon the bed, she regarded him with bewildered eyes.
"What men are there at Schloss Szolnok, Marishka?" he asked quickly.
"Goritz—the chauffeur—and Ena's husband," she answered slowly, with an effort.
"Strohmeyer?"
"Yes. The two men—at the farm—are not here—at night."
"Ah, I see–" And then, "That other door," he whispered tensely. "Is it locked?"
"Yes. I—I locked it tonight."
"You feared?"
"Hugh—until tonight–"
She stopped and shuddered, until he came to her and held her for a moment in his arms.
"He will not frighten you again," he muttered between set lips.
"Thank God," she whispered, now starting up as though with the first realization of their position.
"Have you any plan of what you will do?"
"Yes. Goritz is still below in the Hall. I have a plan, but I can do nothing until he goes to bed. Where is his room?"
"In the keep, along the passageway outside."
"I see," thoughtfully; and then, "Do you know where I can find a rope—several ropes, stout ones?"
"I do not know. There is a storeroom."
"Do you know where it is?"
"Yes, I think so."
"And you can find it—in the dark?"
"I think so."
"Is there any way of telling when Goritz goes to bed?"
"I hear his steps sometimes in the corridor outside."
He went noiselessly over to the door, listened a moment and then returned.
"No sounds. There isn't much sleep for anyone here tonight. The noise and the knowledge that Herr Windt is somewhere near–"
"Herr Windt!"
"He has followed us here. I think he found a trace of me at Bartfeld—the village beyond the mountain," he whispered.
"But we might go down through the castle and the courtyard—if we could pass the man at the drawbridge. Does it make a noise when it is lowered?"
"Oh, yes, Hugh—a dreadful noise."
"That's awkward." He crossed to the door into the wainscoting and listened there, then at the other door into the corridor, and returned to her.
"For the present, at least, we're safe."
He caught her in his arms and held her silently. Her arms clinging to him, she raised her head and found his lips.
"Belovèd," she whispered, "how did you–"
"I followed you here—on a mere fragment of a clew—but it was enough."
"But he shot you–"
"I was well cared for—in a hospital."
"You were wounded—dangerously?"
"Yes, but I don't die easily. I'm quite well again."
"Are you sure?"
He laughed. "Could I be here, else? Your cliffs are steep–"
"You climbed–?"
"Yes, up a fissure and through the ruins. I saw you—there in the window—from across the gorge. I heard you call, Marishka–"
"Call–?"
"That you were not afraid to die."
"But I was afraid, Hugh—it was so far—so dark below." She shuddered.
He pressed her closer to him. "Has he—has Goritz–"
"Until tonight, Hugh—he has not been unkind," she said slowly. "I was sick; he nursed me. But I've feared him—I fear him still–"
He felt her body trembling against his own, and reassured her gently, pausing a moment to listen tensely for sounds at either door. And then–
"Don't worry, dearest. He cannot harm you. I was not spared from death for nothing."
"I am not frightened now, but tonight has been horrible—the noise—my terror of I know not what. It has been like the end of the world to me."
"The beginning of our world, yours and mine," he said confidently.
She straightened, drew away from him and put a hand before her eyes again. "Even yet I cannot believe." She looked up at him with a wide gaze that still held in it something of the reflection of the long days of helplessness and misery—something more deeply spiritual than he had ever seen. "Hugh, dear," she went on softly, "you will think it strange, but I—I have heard you calling to me—speaking to me, like a living presence here in this room. Not as you are now, belovèd, but paler.... I thought that you were dead.... And so when you came—at the door—I thought—I must have dreamed–"
"You were frightened, dear."
"Yes—terribly frightened, Hugh," she confessed, "by him—and by the firing. It seemed at times as though the castle were rocking under me. Listen!"
A terrific cannonading began again—louder, more continuous than any that had gone before.
"Yes—they are fighting for the end of the Pass," he muttered; "the Russians–"
"And will they–?"
"God knows. I pray–" he paused and scanned her face anxiously.
"What, Hugh?"
"That the Russians may win."
She started away from him, her eyes widely inquiring.
"Why?"
He smiled slowly.
"It's simple enough. Because if I am taken by the Austrians I shall be shot as a spy."
"You—a spy!"
"No, not really," he said soberly. "But I'm an Englishman, an enemy of Austria armed and in disguise. That is enough–"
"They—my people would shoot you!" She whispered, horror-stricken.
"I have no illusions about my fate—if taken–"
"But you have come here—to help me–"
"Unfortunately that does not change matters."
He put her gently aside and went for a while and listened at the doors, and then came back to her.
"Silence. But we will wait a little longer," he whispered.
Marishka caught him by the shoulders and looked up into his eyes.
"Hugh, what you have said frightens me. You mean that you—that we are enemies—you and I—because our nations are at war–!"
She drew away and held him at arm's length while she scrutinized him in the light of the guttering candle.
"You—my enemy, Hugh? I—yours?" A wan smile came proudly to her lips. "If I am your enemy, belovèd, then love and loyalty have perished from the earth. And you, who have risen from the grave to come to me–!"
"Sh–, dear," he whispered. "You must know the truth. Whatever happens—here in the castle, the Austrian troops are all around us. Herr Windt, too. There is no escape for me unless the Russians come through. That is why I hope–"
Marishka put her arms around his shoulders quickly and kissed him on the lips.
"Then I, too, pray that they may come through," she whispered fervently.
"Marishka! I do not ask you to give up your allegiance–"
"No, Hugh. I give without asking. Belovèd, I want you to understand," she said solemnly. "Those that are your enemies are my enemies. You would have died for me—and I, can I do less for you?"
"Sh–, Marishka," he murmured, "there is no death–"
"Death can be no worse for me than the horrible utter loneliness without you; but whatever comes, I am yours, Hugh—in life—in death. I owe no allegiance, no fealty, but to you, and I have kept the faith, Hugh, even here. I can have no country that you may not share, no compatriots that are not yours also. My kingdom is in your heart, belovèd, there to live while you will have it so."
"Marishka!" He caught her in his arms and held her long in his embrace, and she clung close to him, her lips on his in this final test of their plighted troth. About them the thunder of battle, ever approaching nearer; the rumble and din of groaning wagons on the road below; the hoarse cries of men; the whine and sputter of laboring motors trying to pass in the narrow road—confusion, disorder, chaos; but now they heard nothing. For them the earth stood still. Nations might totter and crash, but their Empire was in each other....
Renwick raised his head at last. "Marishka," he whispered, "it is time that we made a move." He released her suddenly, listened at the doors, and then moved to the table beside her.
"First, we had better put out the light—then perhaps we can see if there is anyone outside."
Marishka snuffed the candle, and they went to a window overlooking the courtyard, drew the hangings and peered out. The din in the valley below them was increasing, a hurrying of wagons, horses and guns in the narrow road. Were more Austrian reinforcements coming up? It seemed so. From the mountains beyond, the rattle of small-arm fire had risen to a steady roar, but the detonations of heavy ordnance were less frequent.
"The Austrians—may be winning," he said calmly.
She pressed his hand. "I am sorry," she said bravely.
But there was a world of meaning for Renwick in the way she whispered it.
"Your people shall be my people," she murmured again. "And your God, my God."
He could only return her pressure in silence.
He would have been little happy if he could have said how much.
Together they peered through the slip of the silken hanging to the rampart below. Flashes of reflections from the end of the Pass played like sheet lightning, and in the fitful illuminations they could see the figure of the old man, Strohmeyer, reclining in the shadow by the postern gate. The drawbridge was still raised, and beyond it they could see in the flashes, the length of the causeway stretching out into the darkness of the mountainside beyond. Strohmeyer did not move. It almost seemed as though he were asleep.
"What makes you think that Herr Windt is here?" asked Marishka suddenly.
"I saw him with Spivak yonder," and he pointed to the north beyond the gorge.
Marishka was silent, her eyes eagerly searching the shadows. Her hand was trembling a little with the excitement of their situation, but her voice was firm as she whispered:
"Perhaps tonight my eyes are uncertain, Hugh. But do you not see something moving in the shadow of the wall?"
"Where?"
"Of the causeway—there, beyond the chain of the drawbridge–"
He peered eagerly in the direction she indicated.
"A shadow–?" he questioned. "I can't—no—yes—it moves—there!"
"Yes—another and still another. And they are carrying something."
Renwick watched again for a tense moment.
"Windt—and his men," he said with conviction. "They are going to try to span the abyss."
"Strohmeyer–"
Here at least was a community of interest with Goritz. "They will win their way across, unless he wakes," said Renwick tensely.
"What is it that they are carrying?"
"Timbers—see! There are at least four men to each. They are putting them in the shadow of the wall. Will the man never wake up?"
"What can we do?" she whispered desperately. "I could call out to him."
"No–" he said, "I don't want to arouse Goritz yet. Ah! They have slunk away again to get more timbers, I think."
"And if they should succeed–?"
"They must not. One man could hold the place indefinitely from the protection of the gate. If the man would only wake!"
But Strohmeyer slept on.
"And Goritz?" she said anxiously. "Surely tonight he cannot be sleeping."
"Perhaps he is so sure of himself—yes—in the passage below I heard—there was to be a signal—one stroke of the postern bell–"
"But if the man sleeps–"
"If they come again—no matter what happens, we must warn him," he decided.
"Sh–"
Renwick felt his arm seized suddenly by Marishka's icy fingers and turned, following her wild gaze into the room behind them listening. The anxieties of the night had made Marishka's senses keen. "The door!" she whispered. "The secret door by which you came!"
Renwick listened. In a brief lull in the commotion outside, he heard a slight sound, near and startlingly distinct like that of a rat in a partition. Then in the blackness of the room, a gray streak appeared, slowly widening. The door into the secret passage had opened, and the starlight from the loophole beyond now showed a dusky silhouette. Renwick felt Marishka's arm clutch his in terror, as Goritz noiselessly stepped forward into the room. Renwick had instinctively drawn the hanging behind him, and he and Marishka were in deep shadow while every move that Goritz made was clearly defined. First he took a pace toward the bed, then paused and turning struck a match and searched for the candle.
He was in shirt sleeves. Renwick had drawn his automatic and could have shot him easily. But murder, in cold blood—even when his life and Marishka's depended upon it! Renwick could not. He saw Goritz turn from the lighted candle and stare toward the empty bed and then quickly search the shadows of the room. It was a long moment before he saw the blaze of the candle beside him reflected in Renwick's eyes which peered down the barrel of his automatic.
"What nonsense is this—Marishka–?" he began.
But Renwick's voice cut the darkness like a steel blade.
"Don't move—Goritz. Hands up—high!"
"Who–?"
"Hands up, I say–" And as he slowly obeyed, "Now turn toward the bed–"
Goritz was now staring at Renwick as though he had seen a ghost, but he knew better than to take his hands down.
"You–" he muttered. "You're–"
"I'm Renwick," said the Englishman crisply. "Now do as I tell you or–"
He paused uncertainly, for at that moment, behind him through the window came the deep boom of a bell.
"The drawbridge!" cried Marishka.
"Ah!" came from Goritz's throat as with an incredibly swift movement he smothered the candle. Renwick fired twice and then threw Marishka to one side, but there was a crash of the door in the wainscoting, and then silence.
"He has gone!" cried Marishka somewhere in the darkness.
"Wait!" shouted Renwick. Some instinct warned him of the trick, and he sprang aside just as Goritz darted at the spot where he had been. He felt the rush of the man's body and turned, but did not dare to fire, for fear of hitting Marishka, so he ran forward toward the window and presently they met, body to body, clutching in primitive combat. The man's hand went at his throat, but he wrenched it away again—again. His arms went around the waist of his adversary low down, in the attempt to raise him and bear him to the ground. Goritz was now striking furiously at his head, and by this token Renwick knew that the man was unarmed. Renwick's furious rush brought them with a thud against the wall, where they fell, oversetting a table to the floor. Amid the broken furniture they struggled, in the pitch blackness, with their bare hands, for Renwick's weapon had been knocked from his fingers. In the rebound from the wall Renwick fell beneath, Goritz with one hand upon his throat with a grip which was slowly tightening, but Renwick managed to tear it away and release himself, striking furiously at the man's face. Goritz was young and strong, and Renwick's struggle up the cliff had taken away some of his staying power, but he fought on blindly in the darkness; grimly, like the bulldog that holds and ever tightens his jaws, no matter what the punishment he suffers. The bulldog against the wolf. Goritz was agile, and his arms were strong and wiry. He struck and tore, but Renwick's arms were cracking his ribs, squeezing the breath from his body. He struggled with an effort to one knee, and in the change of position managed to get the fingers of one hand around Renwick's throat again. They rolled over and over upon the floor, first one uppermost and then the other, but the fingers on the Englishman's throat were strong. Fires flashed before Renwick's eyes and the blood seemed to be bursting from his temples.
His grip was relaxing.... He felt his strength going. Then with his remaining consciousness he was aware of a warm moisture upon one of his wrists. Blood! Goritz had been struck by one of his bullets. With a desperate effort, he let go one arm and struck. The man's grip relaxed and he tore it away, gasping greedily for breath.
Marishka in terror had at first slunk into a corner, listening to the fearful sounds of the combat—following it with her ears from one part of the room to another. What must she do? Gathering courage, she passed the foot of the bed, and grasping for the table found the match box and managed to light the candle.
They were upon the floor near one of the windows over the valley, locked in a deadly grip, breathing in terrible gasps. She must do something to help—something—for as the glow fell upon them they seemed to struggle upward against the wall by the window, upon the sill. She could not make out which was which—but instinctively she seemed to realize their deadly purpose—death for one or both on the rocks below! The hanging at the window came crashing down and enveloped them, but they did not know. They were drunk with the lust of killing—mad!
