Onward across the lawn moved the Patriarch, and the Flopper had joined him now; but the Patriarch, unheeding, turning neither to the right nor to the left, his arms still extended before him, kept on.  And the people cried aloud: 

“He is coming—­he is coming!  The Patriarch!  The Patriarch!”

Madison moved on—­out upon the lawn himself.

From everywhere, from every scattered spot where they had been, men and women ran and limped and dragged themselves along, all converging on one point—­the Patriarch.

Madison, in the midst of them now, hurried—­for it was plainly evident that the Flopper’s control over the Patriarch was gone.  He reached the Patriarch and touched the other’s arm—­and at the touch the Patriarch halted instantly, his hand went out and lay upon Madison’s sleeve in recognition, and he turned his face, and it was smiling and there was relief upon it—­and confidence and trust, as, suffering himself to be guided, they started back toward the cottage.

And then upon Madison came again that sense of awe, but now intensified.  From every hand tear-stained faces greeted him, white faces, faces full of sorrow and suffering through which struggled hope—­hope—­hope.  They flung themselves before the Patriarch—­yet never blocked the way.  They cried, they wept, they prayed—­and some were silent.  It seemed that souls, naked, stripped, bare, held themselves up to his gaze.  Men, prostrate on stretchers, tried to rise and stagger nearer—­and fell.  Friends, where there were friends to help, tugged and dragged desperately at cots—­and from the cots in piteous, agonized appeal the helpless cried out to the Patriarch to come to them.  All of human agony and fear and hope and despair and terror seemed loosed in a mad and swirling vortex.  And ever the cries arose, and ever around them, giving way, closing in again, pressed the soul-rent throng.

And presently to Madison it seemed as though he had awakened from some terrifying dream, as, in the Patriarch’s room again, he swept away a bead of sweat from his forehead, and stood and looked at the Patriarch and the Flopper.

The Flopper licked his lips, and pulled the Patriarch’s chair forward—­but his hands trembled violently.

“It’s been gettin’ me, Doc,” he whispered, “an’ I can’t help it.  It’s been gettin’ into me all de time.  Say, I wisht it was over.  Honest to God I do!  Dis—­dis makes me queer.  Say, de Patriarch’s got me, Doc—­an’—­an’—­say—­dere’s been somethin’ goin’ on inside me dat’s got me hard.”

Madison did not answer—­but he started suddenly—­and as suddenly stepped to the window and looked out.  Over the cries, the wailings, the confused medley of voices, growing lower now, subsiding, there had come the throb of a motor car.

Madison’s eyes narrowed—­that was supreme again.  A car was coming to a stop before the porch—­Thornton was helping Helena to alight.