A crimson flush suffused Elias's face, then, in an instant, faded to an intense waxen pallor. A film, a glassiness, appeared to form over the pupils of his eyes. His lips parted and twisted convulsively, writhing, as if in a desperate struggle to shape the expected words. Suddenly he threw his arm up into the air; a stifled, broken groan burst from his throat; he fell backward, head foremost, full length upon the floor, and lay there rigid, lifeless.
For a moment a breathless, startled stillness among the people. Then a quick outbreak of voices, and an eager pressing forward toward the spot where Elias had fallen.
Christine for a breathing-space remained motionless, aghast. All at once, “Oh, my God! He is dead—dead!” she cried, an agonized, heart-piercing cry, and sank upon her knees beside him, and flung herself sobbing upon his breast.
Parrot-like, the guests caught up her cry, and repeated it in low, awed tones among themselves: “He is dead. He has dropped down dead.”
The poor minister looked very badly scared, and as though he felt it incumbent upon him to say or to do something, without knowing what.
At first old Redwood himself had started back, completely staggered. But he very speedily recovered his presence of mind.
“Oh, no, he ain't dead either,” he called out.
“He's got a fit or something. Hey, Dr. Whipple, down there! Come up here—will ye?—and see what ye can do.”
The person thus appealed to, a tall old gentleman, with iron-gray hair, had gradually been elbowing his way to the front; and before Redwood had fairly spoken his last word, was bending over Elias, and gazing curiously at his face.
Close upon the doctor's heels came the rabbi. The rabbi's countenance wore a strangely inappropriate smile—one would have said, a smile of satisfaction.