But here again a disturbance is heard at the door—a shuffle of feet and the mutter of voices, and he pauses expectant; whereat his auditors cry angrily for "silence!" which being duly accorded, he begins again:
"Indeed, gentlemen, I fear no words of mine, however eloquent, can sufficiently express to you all my—"
"Oh, Barnabas," cries a deep voice; "yes, it is Barnabas!" Even as the words are uttered, the group of protesting waiters in the doorway are swept aside by a mighty arm, and a figure strides into the banqueting-room, a handsome figure, despite its country habiliments, a commanding figure by reason of its stature and great spread of shoulder, and John Barty stands there, blinking in the light of the many candles.
Then Barnabas closed his eyes and, reaching out, set his hand upon the back of a chair near by, and so stood, with bent head and a strange roaring in his ears. Little by little this noise grew less until he could hear voices, about him, an angry clamor:
"Put him out!"
"Throw the rascal into the street!"
"Kick him downstairs, somebody!"
And, amid this ever-growing tumult, Barnabas could distinguish his father's voice, and in it was a note he had never heard before, something of pleading, something of fear.
"Barnabas? Barnabas? Oh, this be you, my lad—bean't it, Barnabas?"
Yet still he stood with bent head, his griping fingers clenched hard upon the chair-back, while the clamor about him grew ever louder and more threatening.