A moment of profound silence, then the murmuring of the crowd rose sullenly like the moaning of a rising storm; a search-light flashed up in the gloom and swept its uncertain stream from point to point, but it died out. Another and another shone for an instant in different parts of the city, but they all failed.
“Something awful has happened,” repeated Bernardino, as if to herself; “the lights will not burn!”
“Had we not better go down?” asked Thorndyke anxiously, excited by her unusual perturbation.
For answer she mutely drew him to the eastern parapet. Far away in the east there still lingered a faint hint of pink, but all over the whole landscape darkness rested.
“See!” she exclaimed, pointing upward, “the clouds are thinning over the sun, and yet there is no light. What can be the matter?”
At that juncture they heard soft steps on the roof and a voice calling:
“Bernardino! Princess Bernardino!”
“It is Tradmos,” she ejaculated gladly, then she called out softly:
“Tradmos! Tradmos!”
“Here!” the voice said, and a figure loomed up before them. It was the captain. He was panting violently, as if he had been running.