Migwan ran into the house and burst breathlessly in upon the merrymakers.
“Nyoda!” she cried in a frightened voice, “Hercules is—” Then she stopped as though she had seen a ghost, for there sat Hercules in his monk’s costume, just as he had been all evening!
“What’s the matter?” asked Nyoda in alarm, seeing her pale face and staring eyes.
Migwan clutched her convulsively. “There’s a man outside,” she panted, “that looks just like Hercules, and when I spoke to him he fell down on the ground!”
In an instant all was pandemonium. Everybody rushed for the kitchen door and ran out into the yard, where the figure of a man lay dark upon the snow. Sherry tore off his mask and flung it away, and bending over the prostrate man turned his flashlight full on his face.
“It is Hercules!” he exclaimed in astonishment.
“Is he dead?” faltered Migwan.
“No, he’s breathing, but he’s unconscious,” said Sherry. “It’s his heart, I suppose. He’s been having spells with it lately. Run into the house, somebody, and get that leather covered flask in the medicine chest.”
Justice raced in for the flask and Sherry raised Hercules’ head from the ground and poured some of the brandy between his lips. In a few minutes the old man began to stir and mutter, and Nyoda, holding his wrist, felt his pulse come up. They carried him to his room in the stable and laid him down on his bed, and Nyoda found the heart drops which Hercules had been taking for some time.
“But where is the one I thought was Hercules—the one with the monk’s suit on?” cried Migwan, after the first fright about Hercules had subsided.