“Your headache is all gone, isn’t it, dearest?”
“Yes . . . but where . . . is this?”
“Don’t be frightened, dear. It’s the lawn by the gate-house. Now we’re going inside.”
“But how? . . . I don’t understand . . . these people.”
Miss Lebetwood kissed her cheek, leaned her forehead against it. “Never mind, dearest. Everyone is a friend, you know. Can you walk? Here, now.”
The English girl was sitting up; she rubbed her eyes, and sent short, bewildered looks this way and that, far from comprehending her situation. Too many of the party were trying to explain everything to her, and she was beginning to look desperate and unhappy.
“Never mind the silly people,” said Miss Lebetwood sensibly. “See—we’re just a few steps away from the house—where we’ve been before, you know. Now we must go in. Sean, help me.”
The Irishman and the women at last began to support the strengthless girl into the Hall. It must have been a full quarter of an hour since we had poured out from that vaulted chamber into the enigmatic night and had heard the call from the gate-house. Now the servants were roused, summoned by someone, and lanterns were rushing across the lawn in our direction. I had commenced to go with the party about Miss Mertoun, desirous of casting a light before their feet. But Pendleton called me back somewhat peremptorily.
“Bright enough from the Hall for ’em not to stumble by.” Alone in the great mansion the Hall of the Moth sparkled forth, but the glare from its massive chandelier was a sure guiding light. “We need you here,” added our host; “there’s a good deal more of this needs looking at.”
At a phrase from him the lanterns began to swing hither and thither about the lawn, and we men of the party passed across the drawbridge under the resounding gate-house arch.