“I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. But ——” A look checked him. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. "Choose between good and evil;— between him and me.
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