Ditson was the one who broke the spell. Grasping the edge of the table, he rose to his feet, upsetting his chair, which fell with a clatter upon the floor.
“Lynch,” he whispered hoarsely; “Lynch, for Heaven’s sake tell me what you saw!”
Mike gave himself a little shake and turned his horrified eyes toward his companion. His face was ashen, and there was a purple ring around his mouth. At the corners of his nose, extending downward, were two deep lines. His voice was husky and unsteady as he answered:
“I don’t know what I saw, but it looked like the dead face of——”
He paused, apparently unable to speak Merriwell’s name.
“And I saw it, too!” groaned Duncan. “So did Du Boise. He’s fainted, Mike. We must call assistance.”
At this juncture, however, Hal began to show symptoms of reviving. He gasped and moaned, moving his limbs weakly. Ditson stooped and bent over him, seizing his collar and breaking it loose with a twisting jerk. The touch of Duncan’s hand seemed to revive Hal, but apparently it filled the fellow with unspeakable terror, for he shrank away, choking forth a cry and beginning to quiver violently in every limb.
“Why, don’t you ring a bell, Lynch?” said Duncan. “Du Boise is having a fit. He may be dying for all I know.”
But Lynch, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, had covered his face with his hands as if seeking in that manner to shut out a terrible vision which he could not otherwise dismiss. There was a strange stooping slouch to his broad, thick shoulders—a droop throughout his entire figure like that which assails an old man or a younger one who has felt the crushing hand of some fearful calamity.
With his legs beneath the table, Du Boise began to mutter and mumble incoherently. Although he seemed suffering from terror, he finally fell to laughing in a hysterical manner, whereupon Duncan once more clutched him by the shoulder and gave him a shake.