She stood majestic in grey woollen gown, candle in hand, and her dark eyes blazed upon him in terror, wrath and indignation.
It seemed for a moment that she could not speak; some movement passed over the white sweep of her throat and the full dimpling lips, and then-- 'Go down!' She would have spoken to a dog with the same authority, but never with such contemptuous wrath.

'Go down at once! How dare you!' Abashed, knowing not what he might have done to offend, Courthope fell back a step against the wall of the staircase.

From within the room Eliz cried, 'Is he there?
Come in and lock the door, Madge, or he'll kill you!' The voice, sharp, high with terror, rose at the end, and burst into one of those piercing shrieks which seemed to fill the night, as the voices of some small insects have the power to make the welkin ring in response.
Before Courthope could find a word to utter, another light was thrown upon him from a lamp at the foot of the stair.

It was held by Jacques Morin, grey-haired, stooping, dogged.

The Morin family--man, wife and daughter--were huddling close together.