Next instant, Melusine’s blade sank into Gosse’s flesh. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. Earles?” he inquired.
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