'They are trying to murder him!' I cried, and I ran along the gallery to
his door, followed by Mary Quince, whose white face I shall never forget,
though her entreaties only sounded like unmeaning noises in my ears.
'Here! help, help, help!' I cried, trying to force open the door.
'Shove it, shove it, for God's sake! he's across it,' cried Mrs. Rusk's
voice from within; 'drive it in. I can't move him.'
I strained all I could at the door, but ineffectually. We heard steps
approaching. The men were running to the spot, and shouting as they did
so--
'Never mind; hold on a bit; here we are; all right;' and the like.
We drew back, as they came up. We were in no condition to be seen. We
listened, however, at my open door.
Then came the straining and bumping at the door. Mrs. Rusk's voice subsided
to a sort of wailing; the men were talking all together, and I suppose the
door opened, for I heard some of the voices, on a sudden, as if in the
room; and then came a strange lull, and talking in very low tones, and not
much even of that.
'What is it, Mary? what _can_ it be?' I ejaculated, not knowing what horror
to suppose.
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