They strained forward. They had not heard what had been said. They had been sitting too long to be able to stand up easily. The figure leapt from the box, almost lost its balance, the flag draped there tore in the air, the figure landed on its left leg, fell on its hands, and pressed itself up.

Harry Hawk still had his arm raised towards the wings. His speech faltered. He did not lower his arm.

The figure was so theatrically dressed, that it was as though a character from some other play had blundered into this one. The play for Saturday night was to be a benefit performance of The Octoroon. This figure looked like the slave dealer from that. But it also looked like a toad, hopping away from the light. There was something maimed and crazy about its motion that disturbed them.

Then it disappeared into the wings.

Harry Hawk had not shifted position, but he at last lowered his arm.

Mrs. Lincoln screamed. There was no mistaking that scream. It was what anyone who had ever seen her had always expected her to do. Yet this scream had a different note in it. That absence of an urgent self-indulgence dashed them awake like a pail of water.

Clara Harris, one of the guests in the box, stood up and demanded water. Her action was involuntary. When something unexpected happened, one always asked for water if one were a woman, brandy if one were a man.

Mrs. Lincoln screamed again.