She tore herself from his
clutch and staggered into the supper-room, her loosened hair
falling in a gleaming torrent about her shoulders, while he arose
from his knees and came towards her again, gasping:
"I'll show you who's master here--"
Then he ceased abruptly, cringingly, and threw up an arm before
his face as if to ward off a blow. Framed in the window was the
pallid visage of a man. The air rocked, the lamp flared, and
Struve whirled completely around, falling back against the wall.
His eyes filled with horror and shifted down where his hand had
clutched at his breast, plucking at one spot as if tearing a barb
from his bosom. He jerked his head towards the door at his elbow
in quest of a retreat a shudder ran over him, his knees buckled
and he plunged forward upon his face, his arm still doubled under
him.
It had happened like a flash of light, and although Helen felt,
rather than heard, the shot and saw her assailant fall, she did
not realize the meaning of it till a drift of powder smoke
assailed her nostrils. Even so, she experienced no shock nor
horror of the sight. On the contrary, a savage joy at the
spectacle seized her and she stood still, leaning slightly
forward, staring at it almost gloatingly, stood so till she heard
her name called, "Helen, little sister!" and, turning, saw her
brother in the window.
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