The woman answered by turning back toward the dark street and Amos followed her. He walked lightly as though he walked without shoes, as an Arab might follow his master down a ghostly street. His folded arms might have held together a shrouding burnous, his air was secret. He turned like a soldier on parade into a dark hallway and climbed a flight of stairs and another and yet another, going as though he understood perfectly the object of his journey.
The last stairway opened into a room from which he could see an illuminated sky, and he realized that he was above the square. He could hear faintly against the sound of grinding brakes and automobile horns a confident declaration:
"I'm the child of a King,
The child of a King,
With Jesus my Saviour,
I'm the child of a King."
A cold sweat broke out upon him.
His companion moved quietly about the back of the deep, dim room, her motions imagined and not seen. As she moved, it seemed to Amos as though some monstrous and evil thing was bearing down upon him, an enormous, indescribable instrument of woe. His terror was not only mental, but physical; he lifted his hands as if to ward off the crushing weight. At the same time he felt the whole situation to be unreal; and so keen was this impression that he expressed it aloud.
"I'm not like this!"
"What did you say?" asked the flat voice.
Amos answered in deeds, not words. He rose to his feet and moving like a cat approached the door. Then he flung himself down the stairs, one flight, two, three, and out into the street. He believed that he heard footsteps behind him, felt dim arms outstretched for him. He saw, ten times magnified, the face of the captain of the Army. His face was all that he could see. He flung himself upon the little band, now almost without an audience, and pushed his way into the center.
The astonished captain laid a hand upon his arm.
"You're not fleeing from arrest, are you?"