Nick watched her as a cat watches a mouse.
Her face was ghastly and distorted, her breast heaving, her every nerve
quivering, and her eyes were like balls of fire under their knitted
brows.
Still clutching the poniard, her jeweled fingers worked convulsively
around its haft, like those of one who fain would strike a death blow,
yet whose hand was briefly held by consuming horror.
Suddenly she darted nearer, with a vicious snarl.
"You think you'll escape me," she screamed, with bitter ferocity. "It
shows in your eyes. I'll make sure that you don't. Let come who may, you
shall be found--dead! Dead!--do you hear?"
"Oh! yes, I hear."
"Yet you do not fear? We'll see--we'll see!"
She darted closer to him, with the weapon raised, above her head, and
her knee touched Nick's knee. He swung quickly around toward her, and
scraped his feet over the floor below her skirts.
Then came a quick, furious snapping, like the noise of a miniature
fusillade. A score of the matches had been ignited by Nick's swift move.
Almost instantly a shriek of terror broke from Cervera's lips, and she
reeled back, clutching wildly at her skirts.
"My God! I'm on fire!--on fire!" she screamed, with a voice so intense
in its agony as to have chilled a man of stone.
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