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laughter forced itself between her lips, and she sank down
on the floor, noiselessly and slowly, as if supported by
invisible hands. While she stood playing with the knife, she
had suddenly noticed that the lace of Ulrik Frederik’s shirt
had slipped aside, revealing his chest, and a senseless impulse
had come over her to plunge the bright blade into that white
breast, not from any desire to kill or wound, but only
because the knife was cold and the breast warm, or perhaps
because her hand was weak and aching while the breast was
strong and sound, but first and last because she could not
help it, because her will had no power over her brain and
her brain no power over her will.
Ulrik Frederik stood pale, supporting his palms on the
table, which shook under his trembling till the dishes slid and
rattled. As a rule, he was not given to fear nor wanting in
courage, but this thing had come like a bolt out of the blue,
so utterly senseless and incomprehensible that he could
only look on the unconscious form stretched on the floor
by the window with the same terror that he would have felt
for a ghost. Burrhi’s words about the danger that gleamed in
the hand of a woman rang in his ears, and he sank to his
knees praying; for all reasonable security, all common-sense
safeguards seemed gone from this earthly life together with
all human foresight. Clearly the heavens themselves were
taking sides; unknown spirits ruled, and fate was
determined by supernatural powers and signs. Why else should
she have tried to kill him? Why? Almighty God, why, why?
Because it must be—must be.
He picked up the knife almost furtively, broke the blade,
and threw the pieces into the empty grate. Still Marie
did not stir. Surely she was not wounded? No, the knife
was bright, and there was no blood on his cuffs, but she lay
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