“Yes,—bolt the door,” she said. As Alma hesitated, her eyes grew hard, her voice imperative. “Do you know of any reason why you should not do as both Mr. Percivail and I have commanded?”
“No,—no, Madame,” cried Alma hastily.
As the heavy wooden bolt fell into place, Olga again shrugged her shoulders and threw herself into a chair in front of the fireplace.
“Put on your clothes,” she ordered.
“What is happening, Madame? What is all the noise about?” questioned one of the girls.
But there was no answer. Olga was staring into the fire.
CHAPTER VIII.
Percival's blood was still in a tumult as he ran down the line of cabins. From every doorway men were now stumbling, half-dressed, half-asleep. Behind them, in many cabins, alarmed, agitated women appeared. Farther on there were lanterns and a chaotic mass of moving objects. Above the increasing clamour rose the horrible, uncanny wail of a woman. Percival's blood cooled, his brain cleared. Men shouted questions as he passed, and obeyed his command to follow.
The ugly story is soon told. Philippa, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Pedro, the head-farmer, had gone out from her father's cabin at dusk to fetch water from the little reservoir that had been constructed alongside Leap Frog River a short distance above the cabins. The pool was a scant two hundred yards from her home. It was a five minutes' walk there and back. Half-an-hour passed, and she had not returned. Her mother became uneasy. Pedro reassured her. He laughed at her fears.