She had saved it out of love, and he had not even--but no--there was a new memory there--love he had for her, passionate, tender, true, a love that had not its place among the terrors of the past.

But--was not this a new dream, a new delusion of his shaken brain?
And if he loved her, was it not yet more terrible to have deceived the loved one, more monstrous, more infamous, more utterly damnable?
The figure of her rose before him, pitiful, thin, weak, with outstretched hands and trusting eyes--and he had taken of her all she had.

Neither heart, nor body, nor brain could bear more.
"Vjera! God! Forgive me!" With the cry of a breaking heart the poor Count fell forward from his seat and lay in a heap, motionless upon the floor.
Only his stiffening fingers, crooked and contorted, worked nervously for a few minutes, scratching at the rough boards.

Then all was quite still in the little room.
There was a noise outside, and some one opened the door.

The Cossack stood upon the threshold, holding his hand up against the lamp, for he was dazzled as he entered from the outer darkness of the stairs.