be throttling, trampling, and beating the heads of the women, demolishing their ingenious, cunning headdresses. They would tear at each other's ears, bite off each other's noses, and tear the very clothes off each other's bodies, feeling no shame, for they would be mad. Their sensitive, delicate, beautiful, adorable women would scream and writhe helplessly at their feet, clasping their knees, still believing in their generosity—while they would beat them viciously upon their beautiful upturned faces, trying to force their way towards the entrance. For men are always murderers, and their calmness and generosity is the calmness of a well-fed animal, that knows itself out of danger.
And when, having made corpses of half their number, they would gather at the entrance in a trembling, tattered group of shamefaced animals, with a false smile upon their lips, I would go on the stage and say with a laugh:
"It has all happened because you killed my brother." Yes, I would say with a laugh: "It has all happened because you killed my brother."
I must have whsipered something aloud, for my neighbor on the right-hand side moved angrily in his chair and said:
"Hush! You are interrupting."
I felt merry and wanted to play a joke. Assuming a warning severe expression, I stooped towards him.
"What is it?" he asked suspiciously. "Why do you look at me so?"
"Hush, I implore you," whispered I with my lips. "Do
