Two faces were visible in it, his own and that of his young victim pictured in the print hanging on the wall behind him.

They seemed alive.
Both of them seemed alive, and as he saw them thus in conjunction, the sweet, pure countenance of the child he had instinctively mourned, peering at him over his guilty shoulder--the sweat started on his forehead and he uttered a great cry.

Then he stood still, swaying from side to side, the eyes starting from his head in a horror transcending all that had gone before.
"Take him away!" she cried.

"Out of the room! Let him remain anywhere but here.

I pray you; I entreat." But he was not to be moved.
"Ermentrude," he whispered; "they say her name was Duclos.