sobbing, screaming, prayed. Loud it rose, the turmoil of human souls aghast and quailing before a manifestation that seemed to fling them face to face, uncovered, naked, before the awful power and majesty and might of Heaven itself.
They looked again—fearfully. The twisted thing was standing now, standing but still deformed—with crooked neck, with curved, bent, palsied arm. And nearer had drawn little Holmes, his head thrust forward, shaking as with the ague as he gazed on the group before him, oblivious to all else around him.
A twinge of frightful torture swept the Flopper's face—and with that same slow, awful deliberation the misshapen arm straightened out. Men cried aloud again and again—a woman fainted, another here, another there—children wailed and ran, some shrieking, some whimpering, for the woods.
Again the spasm crossed the Flopper's face, a shuddering, muscular contortion—and from the shoulder rose his head.
Inward drew the ends of the line of paroxysm-stricken people—not far, not near to that hallowed group for something held them back; but inward gradually until the line, no longer straight, was half a circle, crescent shaped. Louder came that harrowing medley of sounds, its component parts voicing the uttermost depths of the soul of each separate individual man and woman there—some moaned in terror; some prayed, mumbling, still upon their knees; some laughed hoarsely,
