There was a swift
movement near her. The Louchoux girl forced past and leaped lightly to
the top of the wood-pile, where she knelt close, staring downward with
hard, burning eyes into the up-turned face of Lapierre.
The man could bend no farther now, his shoulders were imbedded in the
snow and the back of his head was buried to the ears. His chest heaved
spasmodically as he gasped for air, and the thin breath whined through
his teeth. His lips turned greyish-blue and swelled thick, like strips
of blistered rubber, and his eyes rolled upward until they looked like
the sightless eyes of the blind. The blue-grey lips writhed
spasmodically. He tried to cry out, but the sound died in a horrible
throaty gurgle.
Slowly, MacNair raised his gun--Lapierre's own gun that he had
wrenched, bare-handed from his grasp. Raised it until the muzzle
reached the level of Lapierre's eyes. Chloe had stared wide-eyed
throughout the whole proceeding. Gazing in fascination at the slow
deliberateness of the terrible ordeal.
As the muzzle of the gun came to rest between Lapierre's eyes the girl
sprang to MacNair's side.
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