“Jacintha!” said a deep voice, that in this stone cylinder rang like thunder from a tomb.
“Oh! saints and angels save me!” yelled Jacintha; and fell on her knees, and hid her head for security; and down went her candlestick clattering on the stone.
“Don’t be a fool!” said the iron voice. “Get up and take this.”
She raised her head by slow degrees, shuddering. A man was holding out a cradle to her; the candle he carried lighted up his face; it was Colonel Raynal.
She stared at him stupidly, but never moved from her knees, and the candle began to shake violently in her hand, as she herself trembled from head to foot.
Then Raynal concluded she was in the plot; but, scorning to reproach a servant, he merely said, “Well, what do you kneel there for, gaping at me like that? Take this, I tell you, and carry it out of the house.”
He shoved the cradle roughly down into her hands, then turned on his heel without a word.
Jacintha collapsed on the stairs, and the cradle beside her, for all the power was driven out of her body; she could hardly support her own weight, much less the cradle.
She rocked herself, and moaned out, “Oh, what’s this? oh, what’s this?”
A cold perspiration came over her whole frame.