Playing with Fire

The impulse of La Tribe's foot as he landed had driven the boat into the
stream. It drifted slowly downward, and if naught intervened, would take
the ground on Count Hannibal's side, a hundred and fifty yards below him.
He saw this, and walked along the bank, keeping pace with it, while the
Countess sat motionless, crouching in the stern of the craft, her fingers
strained about the fatal packet. The slow glide of the boat, as almost
imperceptibly it approached the low bank; the stillness of the mirror-
like surface on which it moved, leaving only the faintest ripple behind
it; the silence--for under the influence of emotion Count Hannibal too
was mute--all were in tremendous contrast with the storm which raged in
her breast.

Should she--should she even now, with his eyes on her, drop the letters
over the side? It needed but a movement. She had only to extend her
hand, to relax the tension of her fingers, and the deed was done. It
needed only that; but the golden sands of opportunity were running
out--were running out fast. Slowly and more slowly, silently and more
silently, the boat slid in towards the bank on which he stood, and still
she hesitated. The stillness, and the waiting figure, and the watching
eyes now but a few feet distant, weighed on her and seemed to paralyze
her will. A foot, another foot! A moment and it would be too late, the
last of the sands would have run out. The bow of the boat rustled softly
through the rushes; it kissed the bank. And her hand still held the
letters.