She struck, as before, right into the mattress, with a deliberate, perpendicularly downward action of the arm.

This time his eyes wandered from her to the knife.

It was like the large clasp-knives which he had often seen laboring men use to cut their bread and bacon with.

Her delicate little fingers did not conceal more than two-thirds of the handle: he noticed that it was made of buck-horn, clean and shining as the blade was, and looking like new.
For the second time she drew the knife out, concealed it in the wide sleeve of her gown, then stopped by the bedside, watching him.

For an instant he saw her standing in that position, then the wick of the spent candle fell over into the socket; the flame diminished to a little blue point, and the room grew dark.
A moment, or less, if possible, passed so, and then the wick flamed up, smokingly, for the last time.