Chambers Robert William
The Moonlit Way: A Novel
XXVII
THE MOONLIT WAY
Barres whistled and sang alternately as he tied his evening tie before his looking glass.
“And I care not, I,
Who ever she be
I could not love her more!”
he chanted gaily, examining the effect and buttoning his white waistcoat.
Westmore, loitering near and waiting for him, referred again, indignantly, to Renoux’s report concerning the presence of Freund and Lehr at the Northbrook railway station.
“If I catch them hanging around Thessa,” he said, “I’ll certainly beat them up, Garry.
“Deal with anything of that sort directly; that’s always the best way. No use arguing with a Hun. When he misbehaves, beat him up. It’s the only thing he understands.”
“Well, it’s all right for us to do it now, as long as the French Government knows where Thessa is,” remarked Barres, drawing a white clove-carnation through his buttonhole. “But what do you think of that dirty swine, Tauscher, planning wholesale murder like that? Isn’t it the fine flower of Prussianism? There’s the real and porcine boche for you, sombre, 367 savage, stupidly ferocious, swinishly persistent, but never quite cunning enough, never sufficiently subtle in planning his filthy and murderous holocausts.”
Westmore nodded:
“Quite right. The Lusitania and Belgium cost the Hun the respect of civilisation, and are driving the civilised world into a common understanding. We’ll go in before long; don’t worry.”
They descended the stairs together just as dinner was announced.
Mrs. Barres said laughingly to her son:
“Your father is still fishing, I suppose, so in spite of his admonition to me by letter this morning, I sent over one of the men with some thermos bottles and a very nice supper. He grumbles, but he always likes it.”
“I wonder what Mr. Barres will think of me,” ventured Dulcie. “He left such a pretty little rod for me. Thessa and I have been examining it. I’d like to go, only – ” she added with a wistful smile, “I have never been to a real party.”
“Of course you’re going to the Gerhardts’,” insisted Lee, laughing. “Dad is absurd about his fishing. I don’t believe any girl ever lived who’d prefer fishing on that foggy lake at night to dancing at such a party as you are going to to-night.”
“Aren’t you going?” asked Thessalie, but Lee shook her head, still smiling.
“We have two young setters down with distemper, and mother and I always sit up with our dogs under such circumstances.”
Personal devotion of this sort was new to Thessalie. Mrs. Barres and Lee told her all about the dreaded contagion and how very dreadful an epidemic might be in a kennel of such finely bred dogs as was the well-known Foreland Kennels.
Dog talk absorbed everybody during dinner. Mrs. Barres and Lee were intensely interested in Thessalie’s description of the Grand Duke Cyril’s Russian wolfhounds, with which she had coursed and hunted as a child.
Once she spoke, also, of those strange, pathetic, melancholy Ishmaelites, pitiable outcasts of their race – the pariah dogs of Constantinople. For, somehow, while dressing that evening, the distant complaint of a tethered beagle had made her think of Stamboul. And she remembered that night so long ago on the moonlit deck of the Mirage, where she had stood with Ferez Bey while, from the unseen, monstrous city close at hand, arose the endless wailing of homeless dogs.
How strange it was, too, to think that the owner of the Mirage should this night be her host here in the Western World, yet remain unconscious that he had ever before entertained her.
Before coffee had been served in the entrance hall, the kennel master sent in word that one of the pups, a promising Blue Belton, had turned very sick indeed, and would Mrs. Barres come to the kennels as soon as convenient.
It was enough for Mrs. Barres and for Lee; they both excused themselves without further ceremony and went away together to the kennels, apparently quite oblivious of their delicate dinner gowns and slippers.
“I’ve seen my mother ruin many a gown on such errands,” remarked Garry, smiling. “No use offering yourself as substitute; my mother would as soon abandon her own sick baby to strangers as turn over an ailing pup to anybody except Lee and herself.”
“I think that is very splendid,” murmured Dulcie, 369 relinquishing her coffee cup to Garry and suffering a maid to invest her with a scarf and light silk wrap.
“My mother is splendid,” said Garry in a low voice. “You will see her prove it some day, I hope.”
The girl turned her lovely head, curiously, not understanding. Garry laughed, but his voice was not quite steady when he said:
“But it all depends on you, Dulcie, how splendid my mother may prove herself.”
“On me!”
“On your – kindness.”
“My —kindness!”
Thessalie came up in her pretty carnation-rose cloak, esquired by the enraptured Westmore, expressing admiration for the clothing adorning the very obvious object of his devotion:
“All girls can’t wear a thing like that cloak,” he was explaining proudly; “now it would look like the devil on you, Dulcie, with your coppery hair and – ”
“What exquisite tact!” shrugged Thessalie, already a trifle restive under his constant attendance and unremitting admiration. “Can’t you, out of your richly redundant vocabulary, find something civil to say to Dulcie?”
But Dulcie, still preoccupied with what Barres had said, merely gave her an absent-minded smile and walked slowly out beside her to the porch, where the headlights of a touring car threw two broad beams of gold across the lawn.
It was a swift, short run through the valley northward among the hills, and very soon the yellow lights of Northbrook summer homes dotted the darkness ahead, and cars were speeding in from every direction – from Ilderness, Wythem, East and South Gorloch – carrying 370 guests for the Gerhardts’ moonlight spectacle and dance.
Apropos of the promised spectacle, Barres observed to Dulcie that there happened to be no moon, and consequently no moonlight, but the girl, now delightfully excited by glimpses of Hohenlinden festooned with electricity, gaily reproached him for being literal.
“If one is happy,” she said, “a word is enough to satisfy one’s imagination. If they call it a moonlight spectacle, I shall certainly see moonlight whether it’s there or not!”
“They may call it heaven, too, if they like,” he said, “and I’ll believe it – if you are there.”
At that she blushed furiously:
“Oh, Garry! You don’t mean it, and it’s silly to say it!”
“I mean it all right,” he muttered, as the car swung in through the great ornamental gates of Hohenlinden. “The trouble is that I mean so much – and you mean so much to me – that I don’t know how to express it.”
The girl, her face charmingly aglow, looked straight in front of her out of enchanted eyes, but her heart’s soft violence in her breast left her breathless and mute; and when the car stopped she scarcely dared rest her hand on the arm which Barres presented to guide her in her descent to earth.
It may have been partly the magnificence of Hohenlinden that so thrillingly overwhelmed her as she seated herself with Garry on the marble terrace of an amphitheatre among brilliant throngs already gathered to witness the eagerly discussed spectacle.
And it really was a bewilderingly beautiful scene, there under the summer stars, where a thousand rosy lanterns hung tinting the still waters of the little stream 371 that wound through the clipped greensward which was the stage.
The foliage of a young woodland walled in this vernal scene; the auditorium was a semi-circle of amber marble – rows of low benches, tier on tier, rising to a level with the lawn above.
The lantern light glowed on pretty shoulders and bare arms, on laces and silks and splendid jewels, and stained the sombre black of the men with vague warm hues of rose.
Westmore, leaning over to address Barres, said with an amused air:
“You know, Garry, it’s Corot Mandel who is putting on this thing for the Gerhardts.”
“Certainly I know it,” nodded Barres. “Didn’t he try to get Thessa for it?”
Thessalie, whose colour was high and whose dark eyes, roaming, had grown very brilliant, suddenly held out her hand to one of two men who, traversing the inclined aisle beside her, halted to salute her.
“Your name was on our lips,” she said gaily. “How do you do, Mr. Mandel! How do you do, Mr. Trenor! Are you going to amaze us with a miracle in this enchanting place?”
The two men paid their respects to her, and, with unfeigned astonishment and admiration, to Dulcie, whom they recognised only when Thessalie named her with delighted malice.
“Oh, I say, Miss Soane,” began Mandel, leaning on the back of the marble seat, “you and Miss Dunois might have helped me a lot if I’d known you were to be in this neighbourhood.”
Esmé Trenor bent over Barres, dropping his voice:
“We had to use a couple of Broadway hacks – you’ll recognise ’em through their paint – you understand? – the 372 two that New York screams for. It’s too bad. Corot wanted something unfamiliarly beautiful and young and fresh. But these Northbrook amateurs are incredibly amateurish.”
Thessalie was chattering away with Corot Mandel and Westmore; Esmé Trenor gazed upon Dulcie in wonder not unmixed with chagrin:
“You’ve never forgiven me, Dulcie, have you?”
“For what?” she inquired indifferently.
“For not discovering you when I should have.”
She smiled, but the polite effort and her detachment of all interest in him were painfully visible to Esmé.
“I’m sorry you still remember me so unkindly,” he murmured.
“But I never do remember you at all,” she explained so candidly that Barres was obliged to avert his amused face, and Esmé Trenor reddened to the roots of his elaborate hair. Mandel, with a wry grin, linked his arm in Trenor’s and drew him away toward the flight of steps which was the stage entrance to the dressing rooms below.
“Good-bye!” he said, waving his hat. “Hope you’ll like my moonlight frolic!”
“Where’s your bally moon!” demanded Westmore.
As he spoke, an unseen orchestra began to play “Au Claire de la Lune,” and, behind the woods, silhouetting every trunk and branch and twig, the glittering edge of a huge, silvery moon appeared.
Slowly it rose, flashing a broad path of light across the lawn, reflected in the still little river. And when it was in the position properly arranged for it, some local Joshua – probably Corot Mandel – arrested its further motion, and it hung there, flooding the stage with a witching lustre.
All at once the stage swarmed with supple, glimmering 373 shapes: Oberon and Titania came flitting down through the trees; Puck, scintillating like a dragon-fly, dropped on the sward, seemingly out of nowhere.
It was a wonderfully beautiful ballet, with an unseen chorus singing from within the woods like a thousand seraphim.
As for the play itself, which began with the calm and silvered river suddenly swarming alive with water-nymphs, it had to do, spasmodically, with the love of the fairy crown-prince for the very attractive water-nymph, Ythali. This nimble lady, otherwise, was fiercely wooed by the King of the Mud-turtles, a most horrid and sprawling shape, but a clever foil – with his army of river-rats, minks and crabs – to the nymphs and wood fairies.
Also, the music was refreshingly charming, the singing excellent, and the story interesting enough to keep the audience amused until the end.
There was, of course, much moonlight dancing, much frolicking in the water, few clothes on the Broadway principals, fewer on the chorus, and apparently no scruples about discarding even these.
But the whole spectacle was so unreal, so spectral, that its shadowy beauty robbed it of offence.
That sort of thing had made Corot Mandel famous. He calculated to the width of a moonbeam just how far he could go. And he never went a hair’s breadth farther.
Thessalie looked on with flushed cheeks and parted lips, absorbed in it all with the savant eyes of a professional. She also had once coolly decided how far her beauty and talent and adolescent effrontery could carry her gay disdain of man. And she had flouted him with indifferent eyes and dainty nose uplifted – mocked him and his conventions, with a few roubles in her 374 dressing-room – slapped the collective face of his sex with her insolent loveliness, and careless smile.
Perhaps, as she sat there watching the fairy scene, she remembered her ostrich and the German Embassy, and the aged Von-der-Goltz Pasha, all over jewels and gold, peeping at her through thick spectacles under his red fez.
Perhaps she thought of Ferez, too, and maybe it was thought of him that caused her smooth young shoulders the slightest of shivers, as though a harsh breeze had chilled her skin.
As for Dulcie, she was in the seventh heaven, thrilled with the dreamy beauty of it all and the exquisite phantoms floating on the greensward under her enraptured eyes.
No other thought possessed her save sheer delight in this revelation of pure enchantment.
So intent, so still she became, leaning a little forward in her place, that Barres found her far more interesting and wonderful to watch than Mandel’s cunningly contrived illusions in the artificial moonlight below.
And now Titania’s trumpets sounded from the woods, warning all of the impending dawn. Suddenly the magic fairy moon vanished like the flame of a blown-out candle; a faint, rosy light grew through the trees, revealing an empty stage and a river on which floated a single swan.
Then, from somewhere, a distant cock-crow rang through the dawn. The play was ended.
Two splendid orchestras were alternating on the vast marble terraces of Hohenlinden, where hundreds of dancers moved under the white radiance of a huge silvery moon overhead – another contrivance of Mandel’s – for the splendid sphere aglow with white fire had somehow been suspended above the linden trees 375 so that no poles and no wires were visible against the starry sky.
And in its milky flood of light the dancers moved amid a wilderness of flowers or thronged the supper-rooms within, where Teutonic architectural and decorative magnificence reigned in one vast, incredible, indigestible gastronomic apotheosis of German kultur.
Barres, for the moment, dancing with Thessalie, pressed her fingers with mischievous tenderness and whispered:
“The moonlit way once more with you, Thessa! Do you remember our first dance?”
“Can I ever thank God enough for that night’s folly!” she said, with such sudden emotion that his smile altered as he looked into her dark eyes.
“Yet that dance by moonlight exiled you,” he said.
“Do you realise what it saved me from, too? And what it has given me?”
He wondered whether she included Westmore in the gift. The music ceased at that moment, and, though the other orchestra began, they strolled along the flowering balustrade of the terrace together until they encountered Dulcie and Westmore.
“Have you spoken to your hostess?” inquired Westmore. “She’s over yonder on a dais, enthroned like Germania or a Metropolitan Opera Valkyrie. Dulcie and I have paid our homage.”
So Barres and Thessalie went away to comply with the required formality; and, when they returned from the rite, they found Esmé Trenor and Corot Mandel cornering Dulcie under a flowering orange tree while Westmore, beside her, chatted with a most engaging woman who proved, later, to be a practising physician.
Esmé was saying languidly, that anybody could fly into a temper and kick his neighbours, but that indifference 376 to physical violence was a condition of mind attained only by the spiritual intellect of the psychic adept.
“Passivism,” he added with a wave of his lank fingers, “is the first plane to be attained on the journey toward Nirvana. Therefore, I am a pacifist and this silly war does not interest me in the slightest.”
The very engaging woman, who had been chatting with Westmore, looked around at Esmé Trenor, evidently much amused.
“I imagined that you were a pacifist,” she said. “I fancy, Mr. Mandel, also, is one.”
“Indeed, I am, madam!” said Corot Mandel. “I’ve plenty to do in life without strutting around and bawling for blood at the top of my lungs!”
“Thank heaven,” added Esmé, “the President has kept us out of war. This business of butchering others never appealed to me – except for the slightly unpleasant sensations which I experience when I read the details.”
“Oh. Then unpleasant sensations so appeal to you?” inquired Westmore, very red.
“Well, they are sensations, you know,” drawled Esmé. “And, for a man who experiences few sensations of any sort, even unpleasant ones are pleasurable.”
Mandel yawned and said:
“The war is an outrageous bore. All wars are stupid to a man of temperament. Therefore, I’m a pacifist. And I had rather live under Prussian domination than rush about the country with a gun and sixty pounds of luggage on my back!”
He looked heavily at Dulcie, who had slipped out of the corner on the terrace, where he and Esmé had penned her.
“There are other things to do more interesting than jabbing bayonets into Germans,” he remarked. “Did you say you hadn’t any dance to spare us, Miss Soane? Nor you either, Miss Dunois? Oh, well.” He cast a disgusted glance at Barres, squinted at Westmore through his greasy monocle in hostile silence; then, taking Esmé’s arm, made them all a too profound obeisance and sauntered away along the terrace.
“What a pair of beasts!” said Westmore. “They make me actually ill!”
Barres shrugged and turned to the very engaging lady beside him:
“What do you think of that breed of human, doctor?” he inquired.
She smiled at Barres and said:
“Several of my own patients who are suffering from the same form of psycho-neurotic trouble are also peace-at-any-price pacifists. They do not come to me to be cured of their pacifism. On the contrary, they cherish it most tenderly. In examining them for other troubles I happened upon what appeared to me a very close relation between the peculiar attitude of the peace-at-any-price pacifist and a certain type of unconscious pervert.”
“That passivism is perversion does not surprise me,” remarked Barres.
“Well,” she said, “the pacifist is not conscious of his real desires and therefore cannot be termed a true pervert. But the very term, passivism, is usually significant and goes very deep psychologically. In analysing my patients I struck against a buried impulse in them to suffer tyrannous treatment from an omnipotent master. The impulse was so strong that it amounted to a craving and tried to absorb all the psychic material within its reach. They did not recognise 378 the original impulse, because that had long ago been crushed down by the exactions of civilised life. Nevertheless, they were tortured and teased, made unsettled and wretched by a something which continually baffled them. Deep under the upper crust of their personalities was concealed a seething desire to be completely, inevitably, relentlessly, unreservedly overwhelmed by a subjugation from which there was no escape.”
She turned to Westmore:
“It’s purely pathological, the condition of those two self-confessed pacifists. The pacifist loves suffering. The ordinary normal person avoids suffering when possible. He endures it only when something necessary or desirable cannot be gained in any other way. He may undergo agony at the mere thought of it. His bravery consists in facing danger and pain in spite of fear. But the extreme passivist, who is really an unconscious pervert, loves to dream of martyrdom and suffering. It must be a suffering, however, which is forced upon him, and it must be a personal matter, not impersonal and general, as in war. And he loves to contemplate a condition of complete captivity – of irresponsible passivity, in which all resistance is in vain.”
“Do you know, they disgust me, those two!” said Westmore angrily. “I never could endure anything abnormal. And now that I know Esmé is – and that big lout, Mandel – I’ll keep away from them. Do you blame me, doctor?”
“Well,” she said, much amused and turning to go, “they’re very interesting to physicians, you know – these non-resisting, pacifistic perverts. But outside a sanatorium I shouldn’t expect them to be very popular.” And she laughed and joined a big, good-looking 379 man who had come to seek her, and who wore, in his buttonhole, the button of the French Legion of Honour.
Thessalie had strolled forward along the terrace by herself, interested in the pretty spectacle and the play of light on jewels and gowns.
Westmore, busy in expressing to Barres his opinion of Esmé and Mandel, did not at the moment miss Thessalie, who continued to saunter on along the balustrade of the terrace, under the blossoming row of orange trees.
Just below her was another terrace and an oval pool set with tiny jets which seemed to spray the basin with liquid silver. Silvery fish, too, were swimming in it near the surface, sometimes flinging themselves clear out of water as though intoxicated by the unwonted lustre which flooded their crystal pool.
To see them nearer, Thessalie ran lightly down the steps and walked toward the shimmering basin. And at the same time the head and shoulders of a man in evening dress, his bosom crossed by a sash of watered red silk, appeared climbing nimbly from a still lower level.
She watched him step swiftly upon the terrace and cross it diagonally, walking in her direction toward the stone stairs which she had just descended. Then, paying him no further attention, she looked down into the water.
He came along very near to where she stood, gazing into the pool – peered at her curiously – was already passing at her very elbow – when something made her lift her head and look around at him.
The mock moonlight struck full across his features; and the shock of seeing him drove every vestige of colour from her own face.
The man halted, staring at her in unfeigned amazement. Suddenly he snarled at her, baring his teeth in her shrinking face.
“Kismet dir!” he whispered, “it ees you!.. Nihla Quellen! Now I begin onderstan’!.. Yas, I now onderstan’ who arrange it that they haf arrest my good frien’, Tauscher! It ees you, then! Von Igel he has tol’ me, look out once eef she escape – thees yoong leopardess – ”
“Ferez!” Thessalie’s young figure stiffened and the colour flamed in her cheeks.
“You leopardess!” he repeated, every tooth a-grin again with rage, “you misbegotten slut of a hunting cheetah! So thees is ’ow you strike!.. Ver’ well. Yas, I see ’ow it ees you strike at – ”
“Ferez!” she cried. “Listen to me!”
“I ’ear you! Allez!”
“Ferez Bey! I am not afraid of you!”
“Ees it so?”
“Yes, it is so. I never have been afraid of you! Not even there on the deck of the Mirage, that night when you tapped the hilt of your Kurdish knife and spoke of Seraglio Point! Nor when your scared spy shot at me in the corridor of the Tenth Street house; nor afterward at Dragon Court! Nor now! Do you understand, Eurasian jackal! Nor now! Anybody can see what Heruli whelped you! What are you doing in America? Kassim Pasha is your den, where your rayah loll and scratch in the sun! It is their Keyeff! And yours!”
She took a quick step toward him, her eyes flashing, her white hand clenched:
“Allah Kerim– do you say? El Hamdu Lillah! Do you take yourself for the muezzin of all jackals, then, howling blasphemies from some minaret in the 381 hills? Do you understand what they’d do to you in the Hirka-i-Sherif Jamesi? Because you are nothing; do you hear? – nothing but an Eurasian assassin! And Moslem and Christian alike know where you belong among the lost pariahs of Stamboul!”
The girl was utterly transfigured. Whatever of the Orient was in her, now blazed white hot.
“What have I done to you, Ferez? What have I ever done to you that you, even from my childhood, come always stepping noiselessly at my skirt’s edge? – always padding behind me at my heels, silent, sinister, whimpering with bared teeth for the courage to bite which God denies you!”
The man stood almost motionless, moistening his dry lips with his tongue, but his eyes moved continually, stealing uneasy glances around him and upward, where, on the main terrace above them, the heads of the throng passed and repassed.
“Nihla,” he said, “for all thees scorn and abuse of me, you know, in the false heart of you, why it ees so if I have seek you.”
“You dealer in lies! You would have sold me to d’Eblis! You thought you had sold me! You were paid for it, too!”
“An’ still!” He looked at her furtively.
“What do you mean? You conspired with d’Eblis to ruin me, soul and body! You involved me in your treacherous propaganda in Paris. Through you I am an exile. If I go back to my own country, I shall go to a shameful death. You have blackened my honour in my country’s eyes. But that was not enough. No! You thought me sufficiently broken, degraded, terrified to listen to any proposition from you. You sent your agents to me with offers of money if I would betray my country. Finding I would not, you whined 382 and threatened. Then, like the Eurasian dog you are, you tried to bargain. You were eager to offer me anything if I would keep quiet and not interfere – ”
“Nihla!”
“What?” she said, contemptuously.
“In spite of thees – of all you say – I have love you!”
“Liar!” she retorted wrathfully. “Do you dare say that to me, whom you have already tried to murder?”
“I say it. Yas. Eef it has not been so then you were dead long time.”
“You – you are trying to tell me that you spared me!” she demanded scornfully.
“It ees so. Alexandre – d’Eblis, you know? – long time since he would have safety for us all – thees way. Non! Je ne pourrais pas vouz tuer, moi! It ees not in my heart, Nihla… Because I have love you long time – ver’ long time.”
“Because you have feared me long time, ver’ long time!” she mocked him. “That is why, Ferez – because you are afraid; because you are only a jackal. And jackals never kill. No!”
“You say thees-a to me, Nihla?”
“Yes, I say it. You’re a coward! And I’ll tell you something more. I am going to make a complete statement to the French Government. I shall relate everything I know about d’Eblis, Bolo Effendi, a certain bureaucrat, an Italian politician, a Swiss banker, old Von-der-Goltz Pasha, Heimholz, Von-der-Hohe Pasha, and you, my Ferez – and you, also!
“Do you know what France will do to d’Eblis and his scoundrel friends? Do you guess what these duped Americans will do to Bolo Effendi? And to you? And to Von Papen and Boy-ed and Von Igel – yes, and to Bernstorff and his whole murderous herd of Germans? And can you imagine what my own doubly duped 383 Government will surely, surely do, some day, to you, Ferez?”
She laughed, but her dark eyes fairly glittered:
“My martyrdom is ending, God be thanked! And then I shall be free to serve where my heart is … in Alsace!.. Alsace! – forever French!”
In the white light she saw the sweat break out on the man’s forehead – saw him grope for his handkerchief – and draw out a knife instead – never taking his eyes off her.
She turned to run; but he had already blocked the way to the stone steps; and now he came creeping toward her, white as a cadaver, distracted from sheer terror, and rubbing the knife flat against his thigh.
“So you shall do thees – a filth to me – eh, Nihla?” he whispered with blanched lips. “It ees on me, your frien’, you spring to keel me, eh, my leopardess? Ver’ well. But firs’ I teach you somethings you don’ know! – thees-a way, my Nihla!”
He came toward her stealthily, moving more swiftly as she put the stone basin of the pool between them and cast an agonised glance up at the distant terrace.
“Jim!” she cried frantically. “Jim! Help me, Jim!”
The gay din of the music above drowned her cry; she fled as Ferez darted toward her, but again he doubled and sprang back to bar the stone steps, and she halted, white and breathless, yet poised for instant flight.
Again and again she called out desperately for aid; the noise of the orchestra smothered her cry. And if, indeed, anybody from the terrace above chanced to glance down, it is likely that they supposed these two were skylarking merrymakers at some irresponsible game of catch-who-can.
Suddenly Thessalie remembered the lower level, where the automobiles were parked, and from which Ferez had first appeared. She could escape that way. There were the steps, not very far behind her. The next instant she turned and ran like a deer.
And after her sped Ferez, his broad, thin-bladed knife pressed flat against the crimson sash across his breast, his dead-white visage distorted with that blind, convulsive fear which makes murderers out of cowards.
