RODERICK HUDSON
Rowland adjured him to pack up his tools and decamp, and then repaired to the house. The air by this time had become densely dark, and the thunder was incessant and deafening; in the midst of it the lightning flashed and vanished as the treble shrills upon the bass. The innkeeper and his servants, wondering and blinking, pale in the frequent flare, had pressed to the doorway, and, as Rowland approached, the group divided to let some one pass from within. Mrs. Hudson, her face white and convulsed, waving her arms, came out as if, on some alarm of a flood, she were walking in the water breast-high.
"My boy, my boy, where 's my boy?" she cried. "Mr. Mallet, why are you here without him? Bring him straight home to me!"
"Has no one seen Mr. Hudson?" Rowland asked of the others. "Has he not returned?"
Each one shook his head and looked grave, and Rowland represented to the poor lady, and by the same urgency to himself, that Roderick would of course have sought asylum in some secure châlet.
"Go and find him, go and find him!" she none the less imperiously quavered. "Don't stand there and talk, or my reason will give way!" It was now as dark as evening, and Rowland could just distinguish the figure of Singleton scampering home with his box and easel. "And where 's Mary?" Mrs. Hudson went on; "what in mercy's name has become of her? Mr. Mallet, why did you ever bring us here?"
There came a huge white glare, under which, for thirty seconds, all nature stood still and Rowland,
516
