skin was marked by the grasses and twigs which had formed her savage bed.
Night was creeping over the world. In the west, a narrow ribbon of scarlet between dark clouds glowed with the dying fire of the sun. The air was very still; even the twittering of the birds was subdued and timorous.
Iris, her heart beating upon the earth, could feel the spreading silence. Gradually her weeping ceased; the pangs of hunger became less intense, softening to a dull, heavy ache which was easier to bear. A lumbering beetle, all purple and gold, fumbled through the grass, climbed upon her thigh, and scraped over her body, unmolested. She dreamed with terrible clarity of the hopeless agony into which she had fallen; and, as she lay, the scenes of her life peopled her visions with the luxuries of years gone by.
**
