She lifted a hand and pointed majestically. Every eye followed the direction indicated by that dramatic forefinger. A star gleamed brightly in the southern sky, a single star in a desert of black.
“That is the star of Oliver October Baxter. He was born under that star and, God help us all, I fear he has died beneath it. Out of all the great and endless firmament, that one star reveals itself to-night. Slink home, assassins! Murderers all! May the curse of that shining star fall upon ye—now, henceforth and forever! May ye never escape from the light of that great accusing eye, looking down upon you from Heaven! Slink home to your wives and children and tell them what ye have done this night!”
But the mob stood rooted to the ground. A sudden shout went up from those in the front rank—a strange shout of relief.
Oliver October was struggling to his feet, assisted by Jane and Lansing. His arms, released from their bonds, were thrown across their shoulders, his chin was high, he was coughing violently.
“He’s all right!” yelled a man, and started eagerly forward only to fall back as Jane Sage held up her hand and screamed:
“Keep away! You will have to kill me before you can touch him again, you beasts!”
“Aw, I only want to help get him into the car—”
“Stand back!” commanded Lansing. “We don’t need your help.”
Three or four eager voices cried out shakily and in unison:
“Take him to a doctor’s!”