To the beast, Fran had become one of those mysterious flying serpents which bite from afar. He felt the sting of her terrible eyes and his gaze grew shifty. It wandered away, and, on returning, found her teeth bared, as if feeling for his heart.
Rushing up to his very face—"Samson!" she cried, impellingly.
Again he seemed to feel the lash upon his tawny skin.
"Samson. Up, Samson, up, Samson—UP!"
Suddenly Samson wheeled about, and leaped upon the table.
Fran stamped her foot at the other lion. "Go to your place, Hercules!" she cried, with something like contempt.
Hercules slowly rose, stretched himself, then marched to his box. He looked from Fran to the immovable Samson waiting upon the table, then mounted to his place, and seemed to fall asleep.
And now, at last, Fran looked at the spectators. Stepping lightly to the bars, she threw kisses this way and that, smiling radiantly. "Oh!" she cried, with vibrating earnestness, "you people out there—you can't think how I love you! You've saved my life. You are perfect heroes. Now make all the noise you please."
"May we move?" called a cautious voice from a few feet away. It was
Abbott Ashton, with eyes like stars.
Fran looked at him, wondering at his thoughts. She answered by an upward movement of her hand.