From the concealment of a clump of bushes he watched
the people as they rushed past him a dozen paces away. Behind all the
others there came a figure that drew a sharp cry from him as he leaped
from his hiding-place. It was Obadiah Price.
"Obadiah!" he called. "Obadiah Price!"
The old man turned. His face was livid. He was chattering to himself,
and he chattered still as he ran up to Nathaniel. He betrayed no
surprise at seeing him, and yet there was the insane grip of steel in
the two hands that clutched fiercely at Nathaniel's.
"You have come in time, Nat!" he panted joyfully. "You have come in
time! Hurry--hurry--hurry--"
He ran back into the clearing, with Nathaniel close at his side, and
pointed to the smoking ruins of the cabin among the lilacs.
"They were killed last night!" he cried shrilly. "Somebody murdered
them--and burned them with the house! They are dead--dead!"
"Who?" shouted Nathaniel.
Obadiah had stopped and was rubbing and twisting his hands in his old,
mad way.
"The old folks. Ho, ho, the old folks, of course! They are
dead--dead--dead--"
He fairly shrieked the words. Then, for a moment, he stood tightly
clutching his thin hands over his chest in a powerful effort to control
himself.
"They are dead!" he repeated.
He spoke more calmly, and yet there was something so terrible in his
eyes, something so harshly vibrant of elation in the quivering passion
of his voice that Nathaniel felt himself filled with a strange horror.
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