Catching hold of his chin, he bent back the neck, while with his left hand he pulled out a clasp knife, which he opened with his teeth, and grasping Wild's head with his arm, notwithstanding his resistance, cut deeply into his throat. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. He did not like it. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. “You are late,” she murmured. That would be an unkind twist of fate. I pray you, Gérard, do not fail me.
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