Would it teach him to loathe his own soul?
Would he ever look at it again?
No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses.

The horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it.
Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad.

The picture had not changed.

It was folly to think so.
Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile.

Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight.