Cries, vows, imprecations, prayers, all blended in an infernal hubbub.
With a burst of ghastly, guttural laughter, he shrieked, “I am the Devil!”
His arms waved—cutting, sawing, hacking the air.
The votaries, trembling, scarcely moved, breathed, as he danced.
Suddenly he gave a great leap into the air—then fell, motionless. They crowded around him. The fiendish look was gone—the demoniac laughter stilled.
It was over.
The tension of the orgy had been too much for us. We parted, with scarcely a word, and yet I could feel that among the rest there was a sort of unholy companionship.
Silently, Kennedy and I drove away in the darkened cab, this time with Seward and Veda Blair and Mrs. Langhorne.
For several minutes not a word was said. I was, however, much occupied in watching the two women. It was not because of anything they said or did. That was not necessary. But I felt that there was a feud, something that set them against each other.
“How would Rapport use the death thought, I wonder?” asked Craig speculatively, breaking the silence.