Then it was that Samson found his voice. A mighty roar shook the loosely-set bars of the central cage--they vibrated visibly. The roar did not come as one short sharp note of defiance; it rose and fell, then rose anew, varying in the inflections of the voice of a slave who dares to threaten, fears even while he threatens, and gathers pa.s.sion from his fear.

At that fearful reverberation, the audience started up, panic- stricken. Hitherto, the last act had been regarded as a badly-played comedy; now tragedy was in the air.

Gregory and Grace Noir at that instant, became alive to their surroundings. Hitherto, despising the show, rebellious at the destiny which had forced them to attend it, they had been wholly absorbed in their efforts to escape observation. The roaring of the lion startled them to a perception of the general alarm.

Grace clung to Gregory. "Oh, save me!" she panted hysterically.

The voice of the woman behind the bars rang throughout the tent--"Sit down!" The voice was not loud, now, but singularly penetrating.

"Sit down, all of you, and remain absolutely motionless, or I am lost."

She dared not remove her gaze from Samson's eyes; but on hearing no rattling of planks, she knew her appeal had been obeyed. There came to her, however, the smothered cries of terrified women, mingled, here and there, with unrestrained e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of dismay.

Abbott Ashton, but a few yards distant, grasped the rope with bloodless hands; he appeared as a white statue, seeming not even to breathe. In that moment, Robert Clinton forgot the jealous suspicion that had tortured his heart since missing Grace Noir from her desk.

Grace Noir, her eyes closed, her cheeks pallid, leaned her head upon Gregory's shoulder, quivering convulsively.

"There, there," Gregory whispered in her ear, soothingly, "everything will be all right."

The masked woman for the second time addressed the terrified audience, still not venturing to turn her head in their direction: "Whoever moves, or speaks, or cries aloud, will be my murderer. I have only one hope left, and I'm going to try it now. I ask you people out there to give me just this one chance for my life. Keep absolutely still."

Again Samson uttered his terrible roar. It alone was audible. Tier above tier, faces rose to the tent-roof, white and set. The audience was like one huge block of stone in which only faces have been carved.

The penetrating voice addressed the band boys: "Don't play. He can tell you're frightened."

The agitated music ceased.

Then the woman walked to the farthest side of the inclosure. In doing so she was obliged to pa.s.s the crouching form of Hercules, but she pretended not to know he was there; she moved slowly backward, always facing Samson.

At last the vertical bars prevented farther retreat Then she lifted her hand slowly, steadily, and drew off her crimson mask. It dropped at her feet Despite the m.u.f.fled street-noises that never ceased to rumble from afar, the whispering sound of the silken mask, as it struck the plank floor of the cage, was distinctly audible.

"Grace!" Gregory whispered in horror,--"it's Fran!"

Grace started from his embrace at the name and glared down upon the stage. She sat erect, unsupported, petrified.

Gregory's brow was moistened with a chilled dew. "It's Fran," he mumbled, "it's Fran! Grace--pray for her!"

Fran looked Samson steadily in the eyes, and Samson glared back fixedly. For a few moments, this quiver between life and death remained at the breaking-point. Had a stranger at that moment looked under the tent-entrance, he might have thought everybody asleep. There was neither sound nor movement.

Grace whispered--"It is the hand of G.o.d!"

Her tone was almost inaudible, but Gregory shrank as from a mortal blow; its sinister meaning was unmistakable. Swiftly he turned to stare at her.

In Grace's eyes was a wild and ominous glare akin to that of the threatening lion. It was a savage conviction that Fran was at last confronted by the justice of Heaven.

Suddenly Fran crouched forward till her head was almost on a level with her waist, in so much that it was a physical exertion to hold her face uplifted. In this sinuous position she was the embodiment ofpower. If she felt misgivings concerning this last resource, there was no look to betray it. Straight toward Samson she rushed, her body lithe and serpentine, her direction unerring.

To the beast, Fran had become one of those mysterious flying serpents which bite from afar. He felt the sting of her terrible eyes and his gaze grew shifty. It wandered away, and, on returning, found her teeth bared, as if feeling for his heart.

Rushing up to his very face--_"Samson!"_ she cried, impellingly.

Again he seemed to feel the lash upon his tawny skin.

_"Samson._ Up, Samson, up, Samson--UP!"

Suddenly Samson wheeled about, and leaped upon the table.

Fran stamped her foot at the other lion. "Go to your place, Hercules!"

she cried, with something like contempt.

Hercules slowly rose, stretched himself, then marched to his box. He looked from Fran to the immovable Samson waiting upon the table, then mounted to his place, and seemed to fall asleep.

And now, at last, Fran looked at the spectators. Stepping lightly to the bars, she threw kisses this way and that, smiling radiantly. "Oh!"

she cried, with vibrating earnestness, "you people out there--you can't think how I love you! You've saved my life. You are perfect heroes. Now make all the noise you please."

"May we move?" called a cautious voice from a few feet away. It was Abbott Ashton, with eyes like stars.

Fran looked at him, wondering at his thoughts. She answered by an upward movement of her hand.

As though by a carefully rehea.r.s.ed arrangement, the audience rose to its feet, band boys and all. Such a shout! Such waving of hats and handkerchiefs! Such unabashed sobs! Such inarticulateness--such graspings of neighboring hands! The spectators had gone mad with joyful relief.

Fran leaped upon the table, and mounted Samson.

"Now, I'm a Rough-Rider!" she shouted, burying her hands in the mane, and lying along the lion's back in true cow-boy fashion. She plunged, she shouted loudly, but Samson only closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

After that, making the lions return to their cramped side-cages was a mere detail. The show was ended.

Fran, remaining in the empty cage, stood at the front, projecting her hand through the bars to receive the greetings of the crowd. Almost every one wanted to shake hands with her. They couldn't tell of their surprise over her ident.i.ty, of their admiration for her courage, of their joy at her safety. They could do nothing but look into her eyes, press her hand, then go into a humdrum world in which are no lions-- and not many Frans.

"Look, look!" Simon Jefferson suddenly grasped Robert Clinton's hand, and pointed toward the tent-roof. "There they are!"

Something very strange had happened up there, but it was lost to Clinton's keen jealous gaze--one of those happenings in the soul, which, however momentous, pa.s.ses un.o.bserved in the midst of the throng.

"Not so fast!" Grace cautioned Gregory. "We must wait up here till the very last--don't you see Mr. Clinton? And Simon Jefferson is now pointing us out. We can't go down that way--"

"_We!_" Gregory harshly echoed. "We! I have nothing to do with you, Grace Noir. Go to him, if you will."

Grace turned ashen pale. "What do you mean?" she stammered. "You tell me to go to Mr. Clinton?"

"I tell you to go where you please. That girl yonder is my daughter, do you understand? Don't hold me back! I shall go to her and proclaim her as my child to the world. Do you hear me? That's _my_ Fran!"

Grace shrank back in the suspicion that Hamilton Gregory had gone mad like the rest of the crowd. "Do you mean that you never want to see me again? Do you mean that you want me to marry Mr. Clinton?"

"I do not care what you do," he said, still more roughly.

"You do not _care?_" she stammered, bewildered. "What has happened?

You do not care--for me?"