There he pauses, surprised at the stillness surrounding the place. It is profound, unnatural.
For some moments he remains in front of the massive pile, looking at it, and listening. Still no sound, within or without.
True, it is time for the inmates to be a-bed.
But if so, where is Hawkins? He may be drinking, but surely not sleeping within!
In any case, Cris deems it his duty to look him up; and with this intent determines to enter.
He is not on terms of social equality with those who occupy the mission; still, under the circumstances, he cannot be considered intruding.
He sees that the great door is closed, but the wicket is ajar; presumptive proof of Hawkins being inside. There are no lights in the front windows, but, as Cris knows, those of the dining-room open backward.
Hesitating no longer, he steps under the arched portal, passes on through the saguan, and once more emerges into moonlight within the patio.
There, suddenly stopping, he stands aghast. For he beholds a sight that almost causes his hair to crisp up, and raise the cap from his head.
Down into the hollow quadrangle—enclosed on every side, except that towards heaven—the moonbeams are falling in full effulgence. By their light he sees forms lying along the pavement in every possible position. They are human bodies—men and boys, among them some whose drapery declares them to be women. They are black, brown, or yellow; but all spotted and spattered with red—with blood! Fresh, but fast freezing in the chill night air, it is already darkened, almost to the hue of ink.