Swooping Down

Even in that supreme moment Lyon Berners' first thought, almost his only
thought, was for his wife. He looked up to see who was there--who had
heard this awful, this fatal charge.

All were there! guests and servants, men and women, drawn there by the
dreadful shrieks. All had heard the horrible accusation.

And all stood panic-stricken, as they shrank away from one who stood in
their midst.

It was she, Sybil, the accused, whose very aspect accused her more
loudly than the dying woman had done; for she stood there, still in her
fiery masquerade dress, her face pallid, her eyes blazing, her wild
black hair loose and streaming, her crimsoned hand raised and grasping a
bloodstained dagger.

"Oh, wretched woman! most wretched woman! What is this that you have
done?" groaned Lyon Berners, in unutterable agony--agony not for the
dead beauty before him, but for the living wife, whom he felt that he
had driven to this deed of desperation. "Oh, Sybil! Sybil! what have you
done?" he cried, grinding his hands together.

"I? I have done nothing!" faltered his wife, with pale and tremulous
lips.

"Oh, Sybil! Sybil! would to Heaven you had died before this night! Or
that I could now give my life for this life that you have madly taken!"
moaned Lyon.

"I have taken no life! What do you mean? This is horrible!" exclaimed
Sybil, dropping the dagger, and looking around upon her husband and
friends, who all shrank from her. "I have taken no life! I am no
assassin! Who dares to accuse me?" she demanded, standing up pale and
haughty among them.