Crane was talking in a loud, but well modulated strain, explaining the accident:
“Mr. Peck and I,” he went on to say, “were enjoying a friendly turn at sword-play up here at Eagle’s Nest; couldn’t sleep, needed exercise, and went up there so as not to disturb any one. While we were fencing she came rushing past through those bushes and leaped right over with a great shriek. She—”
“Don’t stop to talk,” cried Mr. E. Hobbs Lucas, with a directness and clearness quite unusual in a historian. “Don’t stop to talk, let’s go do something!”
“Yes, come on,” quavered poor Peck, his face whiter than the moon and his beard quivering in sympathy with his voice.
“Oh, it’s dreadful, awful!” moaned little Mrs. Philpot, “poor, dear Miss Moyne, to think that she is gone!” and she leaned heavily on Miss Moyne’s shoulder as she spoke.
It was a strange scene, too confused for the best dramatic effect, but spectacular in the extreme. Servants swarmed out with lights that wavered fantastically in the moonshine, while the huddled guests swayed to and fro in a body. Every face was pinched with intense excitement and looked haggard under its crown of disheveled hair. Even the hotel windows stared in stupid horror, and the kindly countenances of the negro waiters took on a bewildered and meaningless grin set in a black scowl of superstition and terror.
When Dufour came upon the scene, he did not appear in the least flurried, and the first thing he did was to lay his hand on Miss Moyne’s shoulder and exclaim in a clear tenor strain:
“Why, here! it’s all a mistake! What are you talking about? Here’s Miss Moyne! Here she stands!”
“Mercy! where?” enquired little Mrs. Philpot, who was still leaning on her friend and shedding bitter tears.
Dufour, with a quiet: “Please don’t take offence,” put a hand on either side of Miss Moyne and lifted her so that she stood in a chair looking very sweetly down over the crowd of people.