The red crept up the knotted cords of Madison’s neck, suffused the set jaws, and, as though suddenly liberated to run its course where it would, swept in a tide over cheeks and temples.

He couldn’t do a thing—­couldn’t he! Well, he’d see the game in Gehenna before Thornton or any other man got her away from him.  She belonged to him—­to him! And he’d have her, hold her, own her—­she was his—­his! And he’d settle with Thornton too, by Heaven!

A laugh, low, unpleasant, purled to his lips—­and he checked it with a sort of strange mechanical realization that he must not laugh aloud.  His eyes swept the room—­the man had returned to his seat, the woman had not moved, both were silent, motionless—­that ghastly, hallowed, sanctimonious hush—­that subdued, damnable light—­meditation!

“For God’s sake let me get out of here,” he muttered, “or I’ll go mad.”

He turned—­and stopped.  Came a cry spontaneously from the man and the woman—­they were on their feet—­no, on their knees.  The doorway at the further end of the room was framing a majestic figure, tall and stately—­and a sun-gleam struggling suddenly through the lattice seemed to leap in a golden ray to caress in homage the snow-white hair, the silver beard that fell upon the breast, the saintly face of the Patriarch.

Then into the room advanced the Patriarch, and his hands were outstretched before him, and he moved them a little to and fro—­and the gesture, the poise, the mien, as, touching nothing he seemed to feel his way through space itself, was as one invoking a blessing of peace ineffable.

Spellbound, Madison watched.  Upon the face was a yearning that saddened it, and, saddening, glorified it; the head was slightly turned as though to listen—­while slowly, with measured, certain tread, as though indeed he had no need for eyes, the Patriarch circled the table and passed on down the room.  The man and the woman reached out and touched him reverently, and drew back reverently to let him pass, and, rising from their knees, followed him through the door and out onto the porch.

The room was empty.  Madison stared at the doorway.  Upon him fell a sudden awe—­it was as though a vision, an ethereal presence, some strange embodiment of power, had been and gone—­and yet still remained.

And now from without there came a sound like a distant murmur.  It rose and swelled, and began to roll in its volume, and then, like the clarion sound of trumpets, voices burst into glad acclaim.

“The Patriarch!  The Patriarch!  The Patriarch!”

From the little hallway came the Flopper, running—­and he stopped and gaped at Madison.

“I left him in his room fer a minute,” he gasped.  “He’s—­he’s lookin’ fer Helena.”

And then Madison shook himself together—­and smiled ironically.  And at the smile the Flopper hurried on.

Madison stepped out onto the porch.  Helena!  Helena!  Within him seemed to burn a rage of hell; but it seemed, too, most strangely that for the moment this rage was held in abeyance, that something temporarily supplanted it—­this scene before him.