I can't believe you're Gryce, the agent; and yet Gryce
had a spark of the fanatic in his eye, too; and men will do
extraordinary things in these paltry feuds of politics. Or if not
the servant, is it the . . . No, I can't believe it . . . not the
red blood of manhood and liberty . . . not the democratic ideal . . ."
He sprang up in excitement, and at the same moment a growl of
thunder came through the grating beyond. The storm had broken, and
with it a new light broke on his mind. There was something else that
might happen in a moment.
"Do you know what that means?" he cried. "It means that God himself
may hold a candle to show me your infernal face."
Then next moment came a crash of thunder; but before the thunder a
white light had filled the whole room for a single split second.
Fisher had seen two things in front of him. One was the
black-and-white pattern of the iron grating against the sky; the
other was the face in the corner. It was the face of his brother.
Nothing came from Horne Fisher's lips except a Christian name, which
was followed by a silence more dreadful than the dark. At last the
other figure stirred and sprang up, and the voice of Harry Fisher
was heard for the first time in that horrible room.
"You've seen me, I suppose," he said, "and we may as well have a
light now.
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