"Just the slightest softening of the tone--the finishing touch!" he
murmured in caressing accents; while to himself he muttered--"It
shall not be! It shall never be!" Then with a swift movement his
hand snatched at the thing he always carried concealed near his
breast--a flash of pointed steel glittered in the light,--and with
one stealthy spring and pitiless blow, he stabbed her full and
furiously in the back as she stood looking at the fault he had
pretended to discover in her picture! One choking cry escaped her
lips--
"Florian--you! YOU--Florian!" Then reeling, she threw up her arms
and fell, face forwards on the floor, insensible.
He stood above her, dagger in hand,--and studied the weapon with
strange curiosity. It was crimson and wet with blood. Then he stared
at the picture. A faint horror began to creep over him. The great
Christ in the centre of the painting seemed to live and move, and
float towards him on clouds of blinding glory. His breath came and
went in uneasy gasps.
"Angela!" he muttered thickly,--"Angela!" She lay prone and horribly
still. He was afraid to touch her. What had he done? Murdered her?
Oh no!--he had done nothing--nothing at all,--she had merely
fainted--she would be well presently! He smiled foolishly at this,
still gazing straight at the picture, and holding the sharp blood-
stained blade in his hand.
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