Her heart shrunk within her, and with a trembling voice she exclaimed: "I forbid this mad vengeance--do you hear?
Will you give it up?
You do not move?
No! you will not! Ye Gods, what can I do ?" She wrung her hands in despair; then she hastily crossed the room, snatched out one of the arrows, and strove to break it.

Paaker sprang from his seat, and wrenched the weapon from her hand; the sharp point slightly scratched the skin, and dark drops of blood flowed from it, and dropped upon the floor.
The Mohar would have taken the wounded hand, for Setchem, who had the weakness of never being able to see blood flow--neither her own nor anybody's else--had turned as pale as death; but she pushed him from her, and as she spoke her gentle voice had a dull estranged tone.
"This hand," she said--"a mother's hand wounded by her son--shall never again grasp yours till you have sworn a solemn oath to put away from you all thoughts of revenge and murder, and not to disgrace your father's name.

I have said it, and may his glorified spirit be my witness, and give me strength to keep my word!" Paaker had fallen on his knees, and was engaged in a terrible mental struggle, while his mother slowly went towards the door.

There again she stood still for a moment; she did not speak, but her eyes appealed to him once more.
In vain.

At last she left the room, and the wind slammed the door violently behind her.