It was a name--Rose--Rosemary Roselle. He beat with an
emaciated fist on the paneling and called, "Roselle! Roselle!"
There was a faint answering stir within; he heard the rattle of a
chain; the door swung back upon an apparently empty and cavernous cool
hall.
VI
A colored woman, in a crisp white turban, with a strained face more
gray than brown, suddenly advanced holding before her in both hands a
heavy revolver of an outworn pattern. Elim Meikeljohn could see by her
drawn features that she was about to pull the trigger, and he said
fretfully:
"Don't! The thing will explode. One of us will get hurt." She closed
her eyes, Elim threw up his arm, and an amazingly loud report crashed
through the entry. He stood swaying weakly, with hanging palms, while
the woman dropped the revolver with a gasp. Elim Meikeljohn began to
cry with short dry sobs.... It was incredible that any one should
discharge a big revolver directly at his head. He sank limply against a
chest at the wall.
"Oh, Indy!" a shaken voice exclaimed. "Do you think he's dying?" The
colored woman went reluctantly forward and peered at Elim. She touched
him on a shoulder.
"'Deed, Miss Rosemary," she replied, relieved and angry, "that shot
didn't touch a hair. He's just crying like a big old nothing." She
grasped him more firmly, gave him a shake. "Dressed like a soldier,"
she proceeded scornfully, "and scaring us out of our wits. What did you
want to come here for anyhow calling out names?"
Elim's head rolled forward and back.
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