Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. “I am sorry for the way I acted, Lucy. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words. My wife—killed me. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever.
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