Francis Devereux dropped Lady Olive's arm, and advancing, laid his hands upon the frame. Then the devil broke loose within me, and seizing him by the collar as though he had been a baby, I threw him on his back upon the floor.
"Dare to lay a finger upon that picture, you or any one else here," I cried, passionately, "and I will kill you!"
CHAPTER XXIII
IN THE PICTURE GALLERY
It is strange that, although so many years have passed, that scene remains as though written with letters of fire into my memory—vivid and clear. Word for word, I can remember every sentence that was spoken; and the different expressions on the face of each I could, if I were a painter, faithfully reproduce. Sir Francis gazed at me speechless in a sort of helpless apathy, Maud and Lady Olive looked horrified and thunderstruck, and my Uncle Rupert, with face as pale as death, was shaking from head to foot, with eyes riveted upon me in a sort of fascinated bewilderment, as though I were one risen from the dead. Sir Francis seemed to be the first to recover himself.
"Arbuthnot! Arbuthnot!" he exclaimed; "what does this mean?"
I pointed to my uncle, and he seemed to shrink back from my outstretched hand.
"Cannot you see?" he faltered, in a hollow tone. "Look at him and at the picture."
I had moved a step forward unconsciously, and was standing in the centre of the broad stretch, of moonlight which was streaming in from the high window. Sir Francis looked at me, and then gave a great start.
"My God! Arbuthnot, boy! Who are you? Speak!"