“Come! we must not leave these poor women to encounter the madman. Follow me, friends!” cried generously one of the spectators, who was still blessed with health, and he rushed towards the steps to return to the ante-chamber.
“It’s too late! it’s only exposing yourself in vain,” cried many persons, holding him back by force.
At this moment, voices were heard, exclaiming: “Here is the Abbe Gabriel.”
“He is coming downstairs. He has heard the noise.”
“He is asking what is the matter.”
“What will he do?”
Gabriel, occupied with a dying person in a neighboring room, had, indeed, just learned that Morok, having broken his bonds, had succeeded in escaping from the chamber in which he had been temporarily confined. Foreseeing the terrible dangers which might result from the escape of the lion-tamer, the missionary consulted only his courage, and hastened down, in the hope of preventing greater misfortunes. In obedience to his orders, an attendant followed him, bearing a brazier full of hot cinders, on which lay several irons, at a white heat, used by the doctors for cauterizing, in desperate cases of cholera.
The angelic countenance of Gabriel was very pale; but calm intrepidity shone upon his noble brow. Hastily crossing the passage, and making his way through the crowd, he went straight to the ante-chamber door. As he approached it, one of the sick people said to him, in a lamentable voice; “Ah, sir! it is all over. Those who can see through the window say that Sister Martha is lost.”
Gabriel made no answer, but grasped the key of the door. Before entering the room, however, he turned to the attendant, and said to him in a firm voice: “Are the irons of a white heat?”
“Yes, sir.”