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Rh death at your hands,—your beautiful hands, so soft to caress. I would not have you feel any twinge of remorse: I would you could kill me, and yet not know that my death has cleared the way for your triumphal chariot.—Oh, Janka! be happy!"

Her head fell back; her eyes closed fast, and her teeth were clenched, showing between her half-open lips.

"Slay me. Oh, slay me!"

Now she has fainted. I lift her up, and lay her limp and lifeless body on a couch.

The purple chamber grows dark in the gathering twilight.