He stared at her, both hands now to his temples; then he turned to look strangely at the empty chair—­but it was not empty.  Miss Harvey, the nurse, on her knees, had flung herself across it and, with buried head, was sobbing unrestrainedly.

And now upon the lawn was a scene indescribable.  The long line was broken.  Men and women ran hither and thither, for the most part aimlessly, as though in some strange state of coma where the mind refused its functions.  They talked and cried and shouted at each other in frenzy without knowing what they said—­some with tears raining down their faces, others with blank countenances, no sign of emotion upon them other than in their wild, dilated eyes.  Here and there they rushed without volition, their throat-noises rising above them, floating through the still air in a sound that no ear had ever heard before, weird, terrifying, without license, beyond control.  Like mad creatures rushing against each other in the dark they were, stupified by a sight that was no mortal sight, a sight that blinded them mentally because it was no human sight.

Faith?  Faith is a matter of degree, is it not?

Or is it at its full in power and efficacy at moments when hysteria in paroxysm is at its height?  Who shall define faith?  Who shall say what it is, and who shall place its limitations upon it?

Out in the center of the lawn young Holmes was in his mother’s arms, the father pathetically trying to wrap both mother and child in his own.  Around them, attracted in that strange uncertain way, the crowd constantly grew larger.  Further out again, Helena was leading the Patriarch toward the cottage, the Flopper close behind her—­the Patriarch walking with a slow tread, his head still turned a little in that listening attitude—­and at a distance followed a straggling crowd.  Then the cottage door was shut—­and Helena, the Patriarch and the Flopper disappeared from view.

A dozen yards from the wheel-chair stood Madison, riveted to the spot, motionless save for a nervous twitching of the lips, his eyes, now upon the invalid who walked about, now on the little lad who had thrown away his crutch.  Some one plucked at his sleeve, but Madison gave no heed—­again his arm was pulled, and he turned to look into Pale Face Harry’s face.  The other’s countenance was gray, the eyes full of a shrinking, terrified light.

“Doc, for God’s sake, Doc, what’s it mean?” whispered Pale Face Harry shakily, moistening his dry lips with his tongue.  “Doc, this ain’t no bunk—­there’s something in it.”

The words seemed to rouse Madison—­to leadership.  He stared at Pale Face Harry for a moment, then a grim smile flickered across his face.

“Something in it!” he repeated with an ironic laugh—­and suddenly grabbed Pale Face Harry’s arm and shook him.  “There’s so much in it that I’m drunk with it, crazy with it—­but I’m trying to make myself believe it isn’t too good to be true.  Get that?  Get a grip on that, and hang on.  Don’t lose your nerve, Harry!”