Frau Leimann stepped musingly towards the grate, as if its warmth were needed to drive the thought of approaching death out of her head and to pour new life into her trembling limbs. Her gaze hung fixedly on a faded engraving which was over the mantel, and which represented a banquet held by one of the ancient English kings. With glassy eyes she stared at this picture representing the joys of living. She did not notice that Borgert had followed her with his feline step. The report of his pistol was heard, quick and sharp, and with a dying moan the woman sank to her knees. Her left hand felt for the warming flame, as if searching for its aid, and the tiny bluish tongues of fire wavered in their reflection on the surface of this white, plump hand from which a rill of life-blood was slowly running, drop by drop, into the ashes of the grate. For a moment only her slayer gazed terror-stricken at the lifeless body; then he pointed the weapon at himself, and a second shot put an end to his existence. Death squared with his mighty hand all the guilt and all the debts he had contracted during his riotous life. When the two corpses, four days later, were carted to the cemetery of Bagneux, the Potter’s Field of Paris, and there consigned to the common grave of the destitute, nobody knew and nobody cared who these two unknown strangers had been. Nobody suspected the drama of their lives or the sin which had hurried them to death. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Garrison, by Fritz von der Kyrburg