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.