Even through the passion of rage that shook her, she felt a momentary subduing chill of horror. She pressed her hands to either cheek, and with strained features, parted lips and staring, dilated eyes, gazed wildly into vacancy. But this horrible inspiration was as a white light suddenly illuminating the dense dark path along which she had been groping. She laughed--a low laugh--terrible, for there was no ring of mirth therein. "It is only justice--justice--justice--justice!" she cried, her voice rising upon every word. "He is the devil's emissary. The world will be well rid of him. It is justice--justice--justice!" She had no more consecutive thoughts, no more reflection, no more hesitation. But one word rang in her mind. Justice! Justice! Justice! She rushed across the room with wild haste, and seized upon Andromache's golden fetter that lay upon a chair. With anger, fiery indignation and hatred, terror and mad love raging within her brain, all other emotions were effectively excluded. Pity, caution, lawfulness, fear of consequences--none of these found any place within her spirit in that dreadful hour. If the souls of the dead can verily watch over those they loved in life, broken indeed must be their heavenly peace and happiness. Rather they must be oft-times in hell. Softly she fastened one fetter around a strong portion of the openwork carved wooden back of the couch; then, without a moment's warning, the handcuff at the other end of the chain was snapped round the nearest wrist of the prostrate figure. Futile was the immediate startled effort of the death-doomed man to rise. In an instant Evarne had dragged away those two quills through which was drawn the breath of life, and had pressed the still slightly unset plaster over the tiny holes. Then sinking on her knees, she seized her victim's remaining arm, clutching it to her breast with a desperate vigour. Her eyes were convulsively shut, her lips parted over clenched teeth, as for what seemed an interminable period she was flung to and fro by the frenzied struggles of the strong arm she held captive. But gradually her task grew easier. Very soon that dire deed had taken its place amid the record of things done. Cautiously she slackened her grasp. The arm, released, drooped heavily downwards from its shoulder, the hand resting inertly upon the floor. Evarne rose to her feet. Unfastening both ends of the golden fetter, she flung it back upon the chair, then left the studio without another glance at the twisted, distorted form of that dead man whose lips would speak no more words, either of devotion or of malice. Deliberately she washed the plaster from her fingers. Her glance was firm and high, her bearing resolute and undaunted. Yet, as she dried her hands, she suddenly paused, and, leaning heavily on the edge of the little sink, uttered a long, trembling sigh such as can well up only from a cruelly over-burdened heart--a low, piteous moan--a stifled wail of despair.