The boy was coming around. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. The visitors, when they entered, looked thoroughly intimidated and Everett concealed a grim smile. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him.
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