"Stand back!" said Kitty, "or I shall drop it!" She held up the lamp,
straight and steady. Ashe paused--in an agony of doubt what to do, his
whole soul concentrated on the slender arm and on the brightly burning
lamp.
"If you make me speeches," said Kitty, "I must reply, mustn't I? (Keep
back, William!--I'm all right.) Hebe thanks you, please--
mille fois!
She herself hasn't been happy--and she's afraid she hasn't been good!
N'importe! It's all done--and finished. The play's over!--and the
lights go out!"
She waved the lamp above her head.
"Kitty! for God's sake!" cried Ashe, rushing to her.
"She is mad!" said Lord Parham, standing at the back. "I always knew
it!"
The other spectators passed through a second of anguish. The bright
figure on the pedestal wavered; one moment, and it seemed as though the
lamp must descend crashing upon the head and neck and the white dress
beneath it; the next, it had fallen from Kitty's hand--fallen away from
her--wide and safe--into the depths of the garden below. A flash of wild
light rose from the burning oil and from the dry shrubs amid which it
fell. Kitty, meanwhile, swayed--and dropped--heavily--unconscious--into
William Ashe's arms.
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