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window. As he looked out, he kept talking to Marie, who from
her couch made brief answers or none at all. This went on
for a little while, until she came over to the window where
he sat, sighed, and gazed out drearily.
Ulrik Frederik smiled and assiduously turned his
signet ring round on his finger. “Shall I breathe on the sick
hand?” he asked in a plaintive, pitying tone.
Marie tore the handkerchief from her hand and
continued to look out without a word.
“’T will take cold, the poor darling,” he said,
glancing up.
Marie stood resting the injured hand carelessly on the
window-sill. Presently she began drumming with her
fingers as on a keyboard, back and forth, from the sunshine
into the shadow of the casement, then from the shadow
to the sunlight again.
Ulrik Frederik looked on with a smile of pleasure at the
beautiful pale hand as it toyed on the casement, gamboled
like a frisky kitten, crouched as for a spring, set its back,
darted toward the bread-knife, turned the handle round
and round, crawled back, lay flat on the window-sill, then
stole softly toward the knife again, wound itself round the
hilt, lifted the blade to let it play in the sunlight, flew up
with the knife—
In a flash the knife descended on his breast, but he
warded it off, and it simply cut through his long lace cuff
into his sleeve, as he hurled it to the floor and sprang up
with a cry of horror, upsetting his chair, all in a second as
with a single motion.
Marie was pale as death. She pressed her hands against
her breast, and her eyes were fixed in terror on the spot
where Ulrik Frederik had been sitting. A harsh, lifeless
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