of dust, something broke a way through the heap of the dead. Slowly it

forced its path, pushing the slain this way and that, till at length

it stood upon its feet and tottered towards us--a thing dreadful to

look on. The shape was the shape of an aged woman, and even through

the blood and mire I knew her. It was Nobela, she who had doomed me,

she whom but now I had smitten to earth, but who had come back from

On she tottered, her apparel hanging round her in red rags, a hundred

wounds upon her face and form. I saw that she was dying, but life