Twenty steps bring her to
the glaring street. Yet the avenger has panther feet.
Out of the shadow, in a moment, she will be. "Oh, God!" the cry
smothers in her throat. Like lightning, stab after stab in her back
paralyzes her.
Bubbling blood from her quivering lips, Marie falls on her face.
A dark shadow glides away, past buttress and vaulted door.
Is it Villa Rocca's ready Italian stiletto?
BOOK V.
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
CHAPTER XVIII.
JOE WOODS SURPRISES A LADY.--LOVE'S GOLDEN NETS.
When a cab is halted, the horses shying at a prostrate body, knots
of street loungers gather at the cries of the discoverers of
Marie Berard's body. The "sergents de ville" raise the woman. Her
blood stains the sidewalk, in the shadow of the Church of Christ.
Twinkling lights flicker on her face. A priest passing by, walks
by the stretcher. He is called by his holy office to pray for the
"parting soul."
It is Pere Francois. He has been in Notre Dame. To the nearest
hospital the bearers trudge. It is only a few rods. When the body
is examined, the pale face is revealed. Pere Francois clasps his
hands.
It is, indeed, the mysterious guardian of Louise, stabbed and dying.
It is the hand of fate!
Breathing faintly, the poor wretch lies prone.
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