On the floor, as it had dropped from among the music there lay a
photograph, face downwards.
He picked it up and looked back at the childish, smiling face, the
tiny, rounded figure of Marie Roumanoff.
"_Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse_."
His mouth twisted into a cynical smile. She had been a true prophetess
when she had written that.
He tore the picture across, and threw it upon the rest of the _debris_.
The Roumanoff would never haunt his dreams again.
Her portrait was easily destroyed. A flimsy thing of print and paper,
as slight and fragile as herself.
Of Arithelli he possessed no tangible likeness, but he would have her
always with him, for her image was seared deep upon both heart and
brain.
_The Witch_ sailed out of Barcelona harbour with the early morning
tide. Besides Emile and Vladimir, and a small picked crew, she carried
an assortment of strangely-shaped machines, things that looked like the
inside of a clock, and were full of wheels and cogs, firearms, and
ammunition, some copies of a revolutionist manual on street fighting
tactics, and other inflammatory literature.
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