The dull thud of the blows, the confusion, the sight of the blood drove the old woman in the corner suddenly upright on her tottering feet.  Her rheumy eyes glared affrighted at the sight of the only friend she recognized in all her mad, black world lying there across the table.  She stood swaying in a petrified terror for a moment.  Then with a thin wail, “He’s killing her!” she ran around them and gained the door.

With a mighty effort Olga Brenner lifted her head so that her face, swollen beyond recognition, was turned toward her mother-in-law.  Her almost sightless eyes fastened themselves on the old woman.

“Run!” she cried.  “Run to the village!”

The mad woman, obedient to that commanding voice, flung open the door and lurched over the threshold and disappeared in the fog.  It came to Mart that the woman running through the night with the wail of terror was the greatest danger he would know.  Olga Brenner saw his look of sick terror.  He started to spring after the mad woman, forgetful of the half-conscious creature on her knees before him.

But as he turned, Olga, moved by the greatness of her passion, forced strength into her maimed body.  With a straining leap she sprawled herself before him on the floor.  He stumbled, caught for the table, and fell with a heavy crash, striking his head on a near-by chair.  Olga raised herself on her shaking arms and looked at him.  Minute after minute passed, and yet he lay still.  A second long ten minutes ticked itself off on the clock, which Olga could barely see.  Then Mart opened his eyes, sat up, and staggered to his feet.

Before full consciousness could come to him again, his wife crawled forward painfully and swiftly coiled herself about his legs.  He struggled, still dizzy from his fall, bent over and tore at her twining arms, but the more he pulled the tighter she clung, fastening her misshapen fingers in the lacing of his shoes.  He swore!  And he became panic-stricken.  He began to kick at her, to make lunges toward the distant door.  Kicking and fighting, dragging her clinging body with him at every move, that body which drew him back one step for every two forward steps he took, at last he reached the wall.  He clutched it, and as his hand slipped along trying to find a more secure hold he touched the cold iron of a long-handled pan hanging there.

With a snarl he snatched it down, raised it over his head, and brought it down upon his wife’s back.  Her hands opened spasmodically and fell flat at her sides.  Her body rolled over, limp and broken.  And a low whimper came from her bleeding lips.

Satisfied, Mart paused to regain his breath.  He had no way of knowing how long this unequal fight had been going on.

But he was free.  The way of escape was open.  He laid his hand on the door.

There were voices.  He cowered, cast hunted glances at the bloody figure on the floor, bit his knuckles in a frenzy.