Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XI
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had never penetrated to the bottom of her soul. There had
always been something about her he could not see, though he
felt it was there.
He did not really know anything about her. Heggen might
be with her now—why not? There had been another — she
said so herself—who? How many more? What else that he
did not know—but had always felt? ...
And now—after this he could not leave her; he knew it—less
than ever now. Yet he did not know her. Who was she,
who had held him in a spell for three years—who had this
power over him?
He turned on his way, hurrying back to her door, driven by
fear and by rage. The front door stood open. He rushed up
the stairs—she would have to answer him—tell him
everything—he would not let her go. The door was open; he
looked in and saw the empty bed with the blood-stained sheets
and the blood on the floor. Turning round, he saw that she
was lying huddled at the top of the stairs, and that the marble
steps were red with her blood.
With a scream he ran up the stairs and lifted her up. He
felt her body limp against his arm and her hands hung down
cold—and he understood that the body he had held in his
arms a few hours ago, hot and trembling with life, was now a
dead thing, and would soon be carrion.
He sank to his knees with her on his arm, calling out wildly.
Heggen tore open the door to the terrace. His face was white
and drawn. He saw Jenny. Seizing Helge, he flung him
aside and bent down on his knees beside her.
“She was lying there when I came back—lying there. …”
“Run for a doctor—quick!” Gunnar had pulled away her
clothes, feeling her heart; he steadied her head and lifted her
hands. Then he saw the wound, and, pulling out the blue
silk ribbon from her bodice, he tied it hard round her wrist.
“Yes, but where shall I find …”
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