They were darkly ironic and triumphant.

There was blood in the fire--and gold--and Diane had mocked his mother.

With a groan Carl flung his arms out passionately upon the table, torn by a conflict of the strangely warring forces within him.

And with his head drooping heavily forward upon his hands he lay there until the melancholy dawn grayed the room into shadowy distinctness, his angle of vision twisted and maimed by the demon of the bottle.

The candlestick loomed strangely forth from the still grayness; the bottle took form; the yellowed paper glimmered on the table.