There were twenty or more, and each wore a white cap, a
white mask, and a white sheet over the body.
"Thar's whar the scrimmage tuck place," explained some one in a muffled
voice, and a white figure pointed to the spot where Westerfelt and
Wambush had fought. "We must hurry an' take 'im out, an' have it over."
Harriet Floyd heard some one breathing behind her. It was Westerfelt.
His elbow touched her as he leaned towards the window and peered out.
"Oh, it's you!" she cried. "Go back to bed, you--"
He did not seem to hear her. The moonlight fell on his face. It was
ghastly pale. He suddenly drew back beside her to keep from being
observed by the men outside. His lips moved, but they made no sound.
"Go back to bed," she repeated. She put out her hand and touched him,
but she did not look at him, being unable to resist the fascination of
the sight in the street.
"What do they want?" he whispered. He put his hand on an old-fashioned
what-not behind him, and the shells and ornaments on it began to rattle.
"I don't know," she said; "don't let 'em see you; you couldn't do
anything against so many.
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