“But, mother, wouldn't that grieve him too much at this time?”
“Rather a few days' grief than a grave under that monster.” Madame Fournier shuddered.
“Where is the ax, mother?” Brynhild's face was as pale as her dress.
“I'll do it, my dear. I'm an old woman and his mother. Perhaps it might be something like murder to kill that human thing, but I have a mother's right.”
“No!” Brynhild's voice was almost fierce. “I want to do it. White Lady hates me, and I hate her. Where is the ax?”
“Wait a little. It is early. One of the Negroes might see you.”
AND Brynhild waited until the night grew older and blacker, when she crept from the house with an ax and a flashlight. There was no moon tonight to guide her through the flowery mazes. A strong wind, coming from the sea, followed behind her like an animal sniffing her footprints. It pulled her skirts and her long, flowing sleeves and whipped her hair across her face.
She had the furtive feeling of one who plans a deed of blood and violence. In her mind she outlined what she must do. She would place the flashlight so that its light could fall upon White Lady. Then she would quickly unlatch the door and chop.
Never had White Lady been so beautiful. In the glow of the flashlight, she stood straight and silent in her waxy foliage, with the gossamer veil whipping around her airily and her dagger arms folded like a demure bride waiting for her bridegroom. Brynhild never knew what to expect from this unnatural creature, and its silence frightened her more than the wildest noise it had ever produced.
Before lifting the latch, Brynhild stood regarding it, horrified, trembling, pitying. White Lady was watching, too, and waiting.
The moment Brynhild opened the door and went inside, a scream like the piercing voice of a woman tore through the night. Again and again the awful shriek wailed from the scraping dagger arms, and Brynhild knew that it rode on the wind to the ears of listeners in the house beyond.
Her nerveless hands almost dropped the ax. How could she wield her weapon against that fleshy, human face—against a thing that could cry out like a woman?
But André's burning eyes haunted her. She must, for his sake.
GRASPING and raising the ax, she went forward, with the wind pushing at her body and snatching her hair over her eyes. The ax fell, with poor aim. It merely crashed through part of the foliage, which cracked with a sickening snap as of crushed bones.
One more dreadful shriek rent the night, a shriek of murder and of rapine; but before its shrill echoes died, another and less hideous woman-voice gave an agony cry.
It was Brynhild. The wind, tampering with her clothes, had blown her long, loose sleeve against White Lady, where it caught or was grasped by one of the dagger arms. The other dagger arm lifted and plunged, lifted and plunged.
The girl was wild with pain and fright. Held fast as she was, she could scarcely use the ax to advantage, especially as she was forced to avoid the stabbing dagger.
The white veil fell from the thing's head. Before Brynhild could again wield the ax, another dagger thrust found her body. Through the flesh of her left shoulder it cut this time, and she crumpled, half-fainting.
Even as she fell, she heard running feet. André's voice called out:
“Brynhild!” Instantly White Lady paused in her stabbing and sent forth another shriek of triumph. Then again the dagger plunged, and Brynhild felt the warm blood flow from her arm.
She never completely lost consciousness, and dimly she was aware of chopping blows made by another, and of her left arm coming away from its horrible mooring. She felt herself lifted and carried for several yards. She felt André's rough, unshaved cheek against her own, and heard soft love words fall from the lips that bent to hers.
André laid her down carefully and shouted for help. Poor fellow! There had been a time when he could have carried her all around the island.
With a supreme effort, Brynhild opened her eyes. The flashlight was still where she had placed it, so that its round eye fell upon White Lady, or what was left of her. Now the plant was only a mass of crushed leaves and petals.
“Yes, I did it,” came André's stern voice. “The bête blanche would have killed you, darling!” He kissed her hungrily. “I've been a beast, myself— and a fool. Forgive me!”
And later after Brynhild's gaping wounds were dressed, she heard André say four simple words that filled her with delight.
“I am hungry, mother.”
White Lady Page 2