His
fellow-servants, who, during the colloquy, had looked on with
gentlemanlike imperturbability, made a simultaneous step forward. My
uncle sent the thong with a hiss about their ears. They sprang toward him
in a fury, but halted immediately and recoiled. He had drawn a small
swordlike weapon, which I did not know to be there, from the stock of the
whip. He gave one swift glance behind him. I was in the hall at his back.
"Shut the door, Orba," he cried.
I shut him out, and ran to a window in the little drawing-room, which
commanded the door. Never had I seen him look as now--his pale face pale
no longer, but flushed with anger. Neither, indeed, until that moment had
I ever seen the _natural_ look of anger, the expression of _pure_ anger.
There was nothing mean or ugly in it--not an atom of hate. But how his
eyes blazed!
"Go back," he cried, in a voice far more stern than loud. "If one of you
set foot on the lowest step, and I will run him through."
The men saw he meant it; they saw the closed door, and my uncle with his
back to it. They turned and spoke to each other. The coachman sat
immovable on his box. They mounted, and he drove away.
I ran and opened the door. My uncle came in with a smile. He went up the
stair, and I followed him to the room where the invalid lay. We were both
anxious to learn if he had been disturbed.
He was leaning on his elbow, listening.
Pages:
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133