And as the frightened servants came running at her call, the women from the kitchen, the man from the lawn, they found the young mistress down on the floor at the feet of the dead master, with her hands clasped around his knees and her head bowed upon them, sobbing as if her heart must break. Tears had come and broken the trance of sorrow.
“Run for the doctor! Run for Mr. Stuart! Run all of you!” cried Mrs. Pole.
And the servants ran in all directions to spread the news or to bring efficient help.
Mrs. Pole went to Palma.
“Get up, my dear child! Let me help you up.”
“Don’t—don’t,” gasped Palma in a smothered tone.
“Come, come with me,” persisted the woman, taking hold of her arm and trying to lift her.
“Leave me! Leave me!” cried the mourner, clinging the closer to her dead, and continuing obdurate to all entreaty.
Cleve Stuart, found and summoned by ’Sias, soon came galloping up to the house, threw himself off his horse and hurried up on the porch.
One look of awe, sorrow and reverence to the changed face of his uncle showed him what had happened. Then he looked on his wife.