But the mob is following, and she is yet far
behind.
Shouting to the chauffeur to hasten, the insistent honk! honk! of
the cab adds its raucous note to the turmoil. They have dashed
through one group;--they are dashing through another;--naught can
withstand an on-rushing automobile. She catches glimpses of raised
arms threatening retaliation; of eager, stolid, uncertain and
furious faces--and her breath held back during that one instant of
wild passage rushes pantingly forth again. Ostrander Lane is
within sight. If only they can reach it!--if only they can cross
it! But they cannot without sowing death in their track. No
scattered groups here, the mob fills the corner. It is packed
close as a wall. Brought up against it, the motor necessarily
comes to a standstill.
Balked? No, not yet. Opening the door, Deborah leaps to the ground
and in one instant finds herself but a mote in this seethe of
humanity. In vain her efforts, she cannot move arm or limb. The
gate is but a few paces off, but all hope of reaching it is
futile. She can only hold herself still and listen as all around
are listening. But to what? To nothing. It is expectation which
holds them all silent. She will have to wait until the crowd sways
apart, allowing her to--Ah, there, some heads are moving now! She
catches one glimpse ahead of her, and sees--What does she see? The
noble but shrunk figure of the judge drawn up before his gate. His
lips are moving, but no sound issues from them; and while those
about are waiting for his words, they peer, with an insolence
barely dashed by awe, at his white head and his high fence and now
at the gate swerving gently inward under the hand of some one
whose figure is invisible.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202