The voice of the woman behind the bars rang throughout the tent—"Sit down!" The voice was not loud, now, but singularly penetrating.
"Sit down, all of you, and remain absolutely motionless, or I am lost."
She dared not remove her gaze from Samson's eyes; but on hearing no rattling of planks, she knew her appeal had been obeyed. There came to her, however, the smothered cries of terrified women, mingled, here and there, with unrestrained ejaculations of dismay.
Abbott Ashton, but a few yards distant, grasped the rope with bloodless hands; he appeared as a white statue, seeming not even to breathe. In that moment, Robert Clinton forgot the jealous suspicion that had tortured his heart since missing Grace Noir from her desk.
Grace Noir, her eyes closed, her cheeks pallid, leaned her head upon
Gregory's shoulder, quivering convulsively.
"There, there," Gregory whispered in her ear, soothingly, "everything will be all right."
The masked woman for the second time addressed the terrified audience, still not venturing to turn her head in their direction: "Whoever moves, or speaks, or cries aloud, will be my murderer. I have only one hope left, and I'm going to try it now. I ask you people out there to give me just this one chance for my life. Keep absolutely still."
Again Samson uttered his terrible roar. It alone was audible. Tier above tier, faces rose to the tent-roof, white and set. The audience was like one huge block of stone in which only faces have been carved.
The penetrating voice addressed the band boys: "Don't play. He can tell you're frightened."
The agitated music ceased.