And so for a little while Madison stood and stared--what had brought the
Patriarch there--the Patriarch who could neither see nor hear nor
speak--what had brought him from his own room across the hall! And
Madison stared, and his hands crept to his temples and pressed upon
them--weak he seemed as from some paroxysm of madness that had passed
over him. The sunlight streaming through the window sheened the
luxuriant mass of hair that falling over shoulders and to the waist
seemed alone to cloak the little figure in its crouched position--the
little figure that shook so convulsively with sobs--the little figure
that clung so desperately at the feet of this god-like, regal man, whose
beard was silver, whose hair was hoary white, upon whose face, marring
none its strength or self-possession, was a troubled, anxious,
questioning look.

Strange! Strange! Madison's hands fell to his sides. The Patriarch's
eyes were turned full upon him, wavering not so much as by the fraction
of an inch--full upon him. And then, as into some holy sanctuary,
fending her from harm and danger, the Patriarch turned a little to
interpose himself before Madison, and, raising Helena, held her in his
arms, her head against his bosom--and one hand lay upon her head and
stroked it tenderly. But upon Madison was still turned those sightless
eyes, that noble face, serene, commanding even in its perturbation, even
in its alert and searching look.

Madison stirred now--stirred uneasily--while the silence held. There was
a solemnity in the silence that seemed to creep upon and pervade the
room--a sense of a vast something that was the antithesis of turmoil,
passion, strife, that seemed to radiate from the saintly figure whose
lips were mute, whose ears heard no sound, whose eyes saw no sight. And