A second later he was lying prone upon the floor with Evans Rutledge standing above him, murder in his eyes. He made a wild attempt to rise, when another terrific blow from Rutledge's arm sent him again to the floor. The hall was in an uproar, and a couple of palms were knocked aside as President Phillips burst into the midst of the mêlée in time to restrain another smash from Rutledge's clenched fist.
"In the name of God, what's the row?" he asked.
"This nigger has assaulted Miss Helen," said Rutledge, gasping and choking with fury.
Mr. Phillips trembled with a fearful passion, but, seeing Helen apparently unhurt, pulled himself down to a terrible quiet.
"Get up," he growled to Hayward. "Now"—when the footman was on his feet—"what have you to say for yourself?"
Hayward looked for the hundredth part of a second in Helen's eyes.
"I have no excuse," he answered simply.
Only silence could greet such an admission. For five seconds the silence and the stillness were torturing.
As Mr. Phillips moved to speak, Helen took two quick steps to the negro's side. His renunciation, his silent, unhesitating committal of the issue—of his life—to her decision, had touched her heart.
"I am his wife," she said, as she took his hand and turned to face the circle of her friends.