St. Vincent sat as one dumfounded. Frona thrust a revolver into his
hand, but his limp fingers refused to close on it.
"Come, Gregory," she entreated. "Quick! Corliss is waiting with the
canoe. Come!"
She shook him, and he managed to grip the weapon. Then she pulled and
tugged, as when awakening a heavy sleeper, till he was on his feet.
But his face was livid, his eyes like a somnambulist's, and he was
afflicted as with a palsy. Still holding him, she took a step backward
for him to come on. He ventured it with a shaking knee. There was no
sound save the heavy breathing of many men. A man coughed slightly and
cleared his throat. It was disquieting, and all eyes centred upon him
rebukingly. The man became embarrassed, and shifted his weight
uneasily to the other leg. Then the heavy breathing settled down again.
St. Vincent took another step, but his fingers relaxed and the revolver
fell with a loud noise to the floor. He made no effort to recover it.
Frona stooped hurriedly, but Pierre La Flitche had set his foot upon
it. She looked up and saw his hands above his head and his eyes fixed
absently on Jacob Welse. She pushed at his leg, and the muscles were
tense and hard, giving the lie to the indifference on his face. St.
Vincent looked down helplessly, as though he could not understand.
But this delay drew the attention of Jacob Welse, and, as he tried to
make out the cause, the chairman found his chance.
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