Further on he saw another image, sad and shadowy,--Cinta, who was weeping as though her tears were the only ones that should fall upon the mutilated body of their son.
"Ah, no!...

_No!_" He himself was surprised at his voice.

It was the roar of a wounded beast, the dry howling of a desperate creature, writhing in torment.
Freya, staggering under the rude push, again tried to draw near to him, enlacing him again in her arms, in order to repeat her imperious kiss.
"My love!...

My love!..." She could not go on.

That tremendous hand again repelled her, but so violently that her head struck against the cushions of the divan.
The door trembled with a rude shove that made its two leaves open at the same time, dragging out the bolt of the lock.
The woman, tenacious in her desires, rose up quickly without noticing the pain of her fall.