The pastor called the guides together; they came with their ropes and axes. He spoke tersely; they were used to action, not words.
“A man had gone up the mountain in the storm.”
Then he gave a low whistle. There was a panting, a breaking through the bushes. A dog threw himself upon the pastor, who bent over him, stroking his thick coat with a magnetic touch. He gave him Martin’s mantle, the dog tore at it, dropped it. The pastor whispered, “Find him.” With a low whine the animal plunged into the thicket, the guides followed, their strong throats propelling sounds that echoed to the unscaled heights.
26
The hotel was in an uproar. The pale women, excited by the storm, could not be kept in their rooms; they crowded the corridors, uttering plaintive cries. The quick flashes of lightning revealed little groups huddled together; one poor thing quite lost her control. She betrayed her terror in a strangely interesting manner: rushed to the long door opening onto the balcony, baring her white bosom to the storm. She was wonderful as she stood there, her face rapturous, like a woman lifting herself to the embrace of her lover.
The storm passed. The pale women fluttered in the sun, holding up their bloodless hands to its warmth, chattering, laughing over their “thrilling” experience.
Mary was terribly worried about her friends. The carriage had not come back. The proprietress thought the party had been driven through the short cut to the pastor’s châlet.
“But the shot!” said Mary. The woman looked grave. It was not hunting time.
When the carriage drove up with Julie and Father Cabello, Mary knew something terrible had happened. She grew very pale, but she had been trained to ask no questions. Julie was quiet, with wide-open horror-filled eyes. Father Cabello took Mary’s hand and spoke gravely.
“There has been an accident. Mr. Steele has been lost in the storm; they are looking for him.” She caught her breath.