XLI.
THE WORK OF AN HOUR.
Base is the slave that pays."--HENRY V.
"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned." --CONGREVE.
Mr. Sylvester upon leaving the bank, had taken his usual route up town.But after an aimless walk of a few blocks, he suddenly paused, and witha quiet look about him, drew from his pocket the small slip of paperwhich Bertram had laid on his table the night before, and hurriedlyconsulted its contents. Instantly an irrepressible exclamation escapedhim, and he turned his face to the heavens with the look of one whorecognizes the just providence of God. The name which he had just read,was that of the old lover of Jacqueline Japha, Roger Holt, and theaddress given, was 63 Baxter Street.
Twilight comes with different aspects to the broad avenues of the rich,and the narrow alleys of the poor. In the reeking slums of BaxterStreet, poetry would have had to search long for the purple glamour thatmakes day's dying hour fair in open fields and perfumed chambers. Eventhe last dazzling gleam of the sun could awaken no sparkle from thebleared windows of the hideous tenement houses that reared their blankand disfigured walls toward the west. The chill of the night blast andthe quick dread that follows in the steps of coming darkness, were allthat could enter these regions, unless it was the stealthy shades ofvice and disease.
Mr. Sylvester standing before the darkest and most threatening of themany dark and threatening houses that cumbered the street, was a sightto draw more than one head from the neighboring windows. Had it beenearlier, he would have found himself surrounded by a dozen ragged andimportunate children; had it been later, he would have run the risk ofbeing garroted by some skulking assassin; as it was, he stood thereunmolested, eying the structure that held within its gloomy recesses theonce handsome and captivating lover of Jacqueline Japha. He was not theonly man who would have hesitated before entering there. Low andinsignificant as the building appeared--and its two stories certainlylooked dwarfish enough in comparison with the two lofty tenement housesthat pressed it upon either side--there was something in its quiet,almost uninhabited aspect that awakened a vague apprehension of lurkingdanger. A face at a window would have been a relief; even the sight of acustomer in the noisome groggery that occupied the ground floor. Fromthe dwellings about, came the hum of voices and now and then the soundof a shrill laugh or a smothered cry, but from this house came nothing,unless it was the slow ooze of a stream of half-melted snow that foundits way from under the broken-down door-way to the gutter beyond.
Stepping bravely forward, Mr. Sylvester entered the open door. A flightof bare and rickety steps met his eye. Ascending them, he found himselfin a hall which must have been poorly lighted at any time, but which atthis late hour was almost dark. It was not very encouraging, butpressing on, he stopped at a door and was about to knock, when his eyesbecoming accustomed to the darkness, he detected standing at the foot ofthe stairs leading to the story above, the tall and silent figure of awoman. It was no common apparition. Like a sentinel at his post, or aspy on the outskirts of the enemy's camp, she stood drawn up against thewall, her whole wasted form quivering with eagerness or some othersecret passion; darkness on her brow and uncertainty on her lip. She waslistening, or waiting, or both, and that with an entire absorption thatprevented her from heeding the approach of a stranger's step. Struck byso sinister a presence in a place so dark and desolate, Mr. Sylvesterunconsciously drew back. As he did so, the woman thrilled and looked up,but not at him. A lame child's hesitating and uneven step was heardcrossing the floor above, and it was towards it she turned, and for itshe composed her whole form into a strange but evil calmness.
"Ah, he let you come then!" Mr. Sylvester heard her exclaim in a lowsmothered tone, whose attempted lightness did not hide the malevolentnature of her interest.
"Yes," came back in the clear and confiding tones of childhood. "I toldhim you loved me and gave me candy-balls, and he let me come."
A laugh quick and soon smothered, disturbed the surrounding gloom. "Youtold him I loved you! Well, that is good; I do love you; love you as Ido my own eyes that I could crush, crush, for ever having lingered onthe face of my betrayer!"
The last phrase was muttered, and did not seem to convey any impressionto the child. "Hold out your arms and catch me," cried he; "I am goingto jump."
She appeared to comply; for he gave a little ringing laugh that wasstartlingly clear and fresh.
"He asked me what your name was," babbled he, as he nestled in her arms."He is always asking what your name is; Dad forgets, Dad does; or elseit's because he's never seen you."
"And what did you tell him?" she asked, ignoring the last remark with anecho of her sarcastic laugh.
"Mrs. Smith, of course."
She threw back her head and her whole form acquired an aspect that madeMr. Sylvester shudder. "That's good," she cried, "Mrs. Smith by allmeans." Then with a sudden lowering of her face to his--"Mrs. Smith isgood to you, isn't she; lets you sit by her fire when she has any, andgives you peanuts to eat and sometimes spares you a penny!"
"Yes, yes," the boy cried.
"Come then," she said, "let's go home."
She put him down on the floor, and gave him his little crutch. Hermanner was not unkind, and yet Mr. Sylvester trembled as he saw thechild about to follow her.
"Didn't you ever have any little boys?" the child suddenly asked.
The woman shrank as if a burning steel had been plunged against herbreast. Looking down on the frightened child, she hissed out frombetween her teeth, "Did he tell you to ask me that? Did he dare--" Shestopped and pressed her arms against her swelling heart as if she wouldsmother its very beats. "Oh no, of course he didn't tell you; what doeshe know or care about Mrs. Smith!" Then with a quick gasp and a wildlook into the space before her, "My child dead, and her child alive andbeloved! What wonder that I hate earth and defy heaven!"
She caught the boy by the hand and drew him quickly away. "You will begood to me," he cried, frightened by her manner yet evidently fascinatedtoo, perhaps on account of the faint sparks of kindness that alternatedwith gusts of passion he did not understand. "You won't hurt me; you'lllet me sit by the fire and get warm?"
"Yes, yes."
"And eat a bit of bread with butter on it?"
"Yes, yes."
"Then I'll go."
She drew him down the hall. "Why do you like to have me come to yourhouse?" he prattled away.
She turned on him with a look which unfortunately Mr. Sylvester couldnot see. "Because your eyes are so blue and your skin is so white; theymake me remember her!"
"And who is _her_?"
She laughed and seemed to hug herself in her rage and bitterness. "Yourmother!" she cried, and in speaking it, she came upon Mr. Sylvester.
He at once put out his hand.
"I don't know who you are," said he, "but I do not think you had bettertake the child out to-night. From what you say, his father is evidentlyupstairs; if you will give the boy to me, I will take him back and leavehim where he belongs."
"You will?" The slow intensity of her tone was indescribable. "Know thatI don't bear interference from strangers." And catching up the child,she rushed by him like a flash. "You are probably one of thosemissionaries who go stealing about unasked into respectable persons'rooms," she called back. "If by any chance you wander into his, tell himhis child is in good hands, do you hear, in good hands!" And with afinal burst of her hideous laugh, she dashed down the stairs and wasgone.
Mr. Sylvester stood shocked and undecided. His fatherly heart urged himto search at once for the parent of this lame boy, and warn him of thepossible results of entrusting his child to a woman with so littlecommand over herself. But upon taking out his watch and finding it laterby a good half-hour than he expected, he was so struck with thenecessity of completing his errand, that he forgot everything else inhis anxiety to confront Holt. Knocking at the first door he came to, hewaited. A
quick snarl and a surprised, "Come in!" announced that he hadscared up some sort of a living being, but whether man or woman he foundit impossible to tell, even after the door opened and the creature,whoever it was, rose upon him from a pile of rags scattered in onecorner.
"I want Mr. Holt; can you tell me where to find him?"
"Upstairs," was the only reply he received, as the creature settled downagain upon its heap of tattered clothing.
Fain to be content with this, he went up another flight and openedanother door. He was more successful this time; one glance of his eyeassured him that the man he was in search of, sat before him. He hadnever seen Mr. Holt; but the regular if vitiated features of the personupon whom he now intruded, his lank but not ungraceful form, and free ifnot airy manners, were not so common among the denizens of thisunwholesome quarter, that there could be any doubt as to his being theaccomplished but degenerate individual whose once attractive air hadstolen the heart of Colonel Japha's daughter.
He was sitting in front of a small pine table, and when Mr. Sylvester'seyes first fell upon him, was engaged in watching with a somewhatsinister smile, the final twirl of a solitary nickle which he had setspinning on the board before him. But at the sound of a step at thedoor, a lightning change passed over his countenance, and rising with aquick anticipatory "Ah!" he turned with hasty action to meet theintruder. A second exclamation and a still more hasty recoil were theresult. This was not the face or the form of him whom he had expected.
"Mr. Holt, I believe?" inquired Mr. Sylvester, advancing with his mostdignified mien.
The other bowed, but in a doubtful way that for a moment robbed him ofhis usual air of impudent self-assertion.
"Then I have business with you," continued Mr. Sylvester, laying theman's own card down on the table before him. "My name is Sylvester," heproceeded, with a calmness that surprised himself; "and I am the uncleof the young man upon--whom you are at present presuming to levyblackmail."
The assurance which for a moment had deserted the countenance of theother, returned with a flash. "His uncle!" reechoed he, with a lowanomalous bow; "then it is from you I may expect the not unreasonablesum which I demand as the price of my attentions to your nephew'sinterest. Very good, I am not particular from what quarter it comes, sothat it does come and that before the clock has struck the hour which Ihave set as the limit of my forbearance."
"Which is seven o'clock, I believe?"
"Which is seven o'clock."
Mr. Sylvester folded his arms and sternly eyed the man before him. "Youstill adhere to your intention, then, of forwarding to Mr. Stuyvesant atthat hour, the sealed communication now in the hands of your lawyer?"
The smile with which the other responded was like the glint of a partlysheathed dagger. "My lawyer has already received his instructions.Nothing but an immediate countermand on my part, will prevent thecommunication of which you speak, from going to Mr. Stuyvesant at seveno'clock."
The sigh which rose in Mr. Sylvester's breast did not disturb the severeimmobility of his lip. "Have you ever considered the possibility," saidhe, "of the man whom you overheard talking in the restaurant in DeyStreet two years ago, not being Mr. Bertram Sylvester of the MadisonBank?"
"No," returned the other, with a short, sharp, and wholly undisturbedlaugh, "I do not think I ever have."
"Will you give me credit, then, for speaking with reason, when I declareto you that the man you overheard talking in the manner you profess todescribe in your communication, was not Mr. Bertram Sylvester?"
A shrug of the shoulders, highly foreign and suggestive, was the other'sanswer. "It was Mr. Sylvester or it was the devil," proclaimed he--"withall deference to your reason, my good sir; or why are you here?" hekeenly added.
Mr. Sylvester did not reply. With a sarcastic twitch of his lips the mantook up the nickle with which he had been amusing himself when theformer came in, and set it spinning again upon the table. "It ishalf-past six," remarked he. "It will take me a good half hour to go tomy lawyer."
Mr. Sylvester made a final effort. "If you could be convinced," said he,"that you have got your grasp upon the wrong man, would you stillpersist in the course upon which you seem determined?"
With a dexterous sleight-of-hand movement, the man picked up thewhirling nickle and laid it flat on the table before him. "A fellowwhose whole fortune is represented by a coin like that"--tapping thepiece significantly--"is not as easily convinced as a man of your means,perhaps. But if I should be brought to own that I had made a mistake inmy man, I should still feel myself justified in proceeding against him,since my very accusation of him seems to be enough to arouse suchinterest on the part of his friends."
"Wretch!" leaped to Mr. Sylvester's lips, but he did not speak it. "Hisfriends," declared he, "have most certainly a great interest in hisreputation and his happiness; but they never will pay any thing uponcoercion to preserve the one or to insure the other."
"They won't!" And for the first time Roger Holt slightly quavered.
"A man's honor and happiness are much, and he will struggle long beforehe will consent to part from them. But a citizen of a great town likethis, owes something to his fellows, and submitting to blackmail is buta poor precedent to set. You will have to proceed as you will, Mr. Holt;neither my nephew nor myself, have any money to give you."
The glare in the man's eyes was like that of an aroused tiger. "Do youmean to say," cried he, "that you will not give from your abundance, apaltry thousand dollars to save one of your blood from a suspicion thatwill never leave him, _never leave him_ to the end of his miserabledays?"
"I mean to say that not one cent will pass from me to you in payment ofa silence, which as a gentleman, you ought to feel it incumbent upon youto preserve unasked, if only to prove to your fellow-men that you havenot entirely lost all the instincts of the caste to which you oncebelonged. Not that I look for anything so disinterested from you," hewent on. "A man who could enter the home of a respectable gentleman, andunder cover of a brotherly regard, lure into degradation and despair,the woman who was at once its ornament and pride, cannot be expected topractice the virtues of ordinary manhood, much less those of a gentlemanand a Christian. He is a wretch, who, whatever his breeding orantecedents, is open to nothing but execration and contempt."
With an oath and a quick backward spring, Roger Holt cried out, "Who areyou, and by what right do you come here to reproach me with a matterdead and buried, by heaven, a dozen years ago?"
"The right of one who, though a stranger, knows well what you are andwhat you have done. Colonel Japha himself is dead, but the avenger ofhis honor yet lives! Roger Holt, _where is Jacqueline Japha_?"
The force with which this was uttered, seemed to confound the man. For amoment he stood silent, his eye upon his guest, then a subtle changetook place in his expression; he smiled with a slow devilish meaning,and tossing his head with an airy gesture, lightly remarked:
"You must ask some more constant lover than I. A woman who was charmingten years ago--Bah! what would I be likely to know about her now!"
"Everything, when that woman is Jacqueline Japha," cried Mr. Sylvester,advancing upon him with a look that would have shaken most men, butwhich only made the eye of this one burn more eagerly. "Though you mighteasily wish to give her the slip, she is not one to forget you. If sheis alive, you know where she is; speak then, and let the worth of onegood action make what amends it can for a long list of evil ones."
"You really want to see the woman, then; enough to pay for it, I mean?"
"The reward which has been offered for news of the fate or whereaboutsof Jacqueline Japha, still stands good," was Mr. Sylvester's reply.
The excited stare with which the man received this announcement, slowlysubsided into his former subtle look.
"Well, well," said he, "we will see." The truth was, that he knew nomore than the other where this woman was to be found. "If I happen tocome across her in any of my wanderings, I shall know where to apply formeans to make her welcome. But
that is not what at present concerns us.Your nephew is losing ground with every passing minute. In a half-hourmore his future will be decided, unless you bid me order my lawyer todelay the forwarding of that communication to Mr. Stuyvesant. In thatcase--"
"I believe I have already made it plain to you that I have no intentionsof interfering with your action in this matter," quoth Mr. Sylvester,turning slowly toward the door. "If you are determined to send yourstatement, it must go, only--" And here he turned upon the bitterlydisappointed man with an aspect whose nobility the other was but littlecalculated to appreciate--"only when you do so, be particular to statethat the person whose story you thus forward to a director of theMadison Bank, is not Bertram Sylvester, the cashier, but EdwardSylvester, his uncle, and the bank's president."
And the stately head bowed and the tall form was about to withdraw, whenHolt with an excited tremble that affected even his words, advanced andseized Mr. Sylvester by the arm.
"His uncle!" cried he, "why that is what you--Great heaven!" heexclaimed, falling back with an expression not unmixed with awe, "youare the man and you have denounced yourself!" Then quickly, "Speakagain; let me hear your voice."
And Mr. Sylvester with a sad smile, repeated in a slow and meaning tone,"It is but one little _fuss_ more!" then as the other cringed, added adignified, "Good evening, Mr. Holt," and passed swiftly across the roomtowards the door.
What was it that stopped him half-way, and made him look back with sucha startled glance at the man he had left behind him? A smell of smoke inthe air, the faint yet unmistakable odor of burning wood, as though thehouse were on fire, or--
Ha! the man himself has discerned it, is on his feet, is at the window,has seen what? His cry of mingled terror and dismay does not reveal. Mr.Sylvester hastens to his side.
The sight which met his eyes, did not for the moment seem sufficient toaccount for the degree of emotion expressed by the other. To be sure,the lofty tenement-house which towered above them from the other side ofthe narrow yard upon which the window looked, was oozing with smoke, butthere were no flames visible, and as yet no special manifestations ofalarm on the part of its occupants. But in an instant, even while theystood there, arose the sudden and awful cry of "Fire!" and at the samemoment they beheld the roof and casements before them, swarm with pallidfaces, as men, women and children rushed to the first outlet thatoffered escape, only to shrink back in renewed terror from the deadlygulf that yawned beneath them.
It was horrible, all the more that the fire seem to be somewhere in thebasement story, possibly at the foot of the stairs, for none of the poorshrieking wretches before them seemed to make any effort to escapedownwards, but rather surged up towards the top of the building, wavingtheir arms as they fled, and filling the dusk with cries that drownedthe sound of the coming engines.
The scene appeared to madden Holt. "My boy! my boy! my boy!" rose fromhis lips in an agonized shriek; then as Mr. Sylvester gave a suddenstart, cried out with indiscribable anguish, "He is there, my boy, myown little chap! A woman in that house has bewitched him, and when he isnot with me, he is always at her side. O God, curses on my head for everletting him out of my sight! Do you see him, sir? Look for him, Ibeseech you; he is lame and small; his head would barely reach to thetop of the window-sill."
"And that was your boy!" cried Mr. Sylvester. And struck by an appealwhich in spite of his abhorrence of the man at his side, woke everyinstinct of fatherhood within him, he searched with his glance the longrow of windows before them. But before his eye had travelled half wayacross the building, he felt the man at his side quiver with suddenagony, and following the direction of his glance, saw a wan, littlecountenance looking down upon them from a window almost opposite towhere they stood.
"It is my boy!" shrieked the man, and in his madness would have leapedfrom the casement, if Mr. Sylvester had not prevented him.
"You will not help him so," cried the latter. "See, he is only a fewfeet above a bridge that appears to communicate with the roof of thenext house. If he could be let down--"
But the man had already precipitated himself towards the door of theroom in which they were. "Tell him not to jump," he called back. "I amgoing next door and will reach him in a moment. Tell him to hold on tillI come."
Mr. Sylvester at once raised his voice. "Don't jump, little boy Holt. Ifthere is no one there to drop you down, wait for your father. He isgoing on the bridge and will catch you."
The little fellow seemed to hear, for he immediately held out his arms,but if he spoke, his voice was drowned in the frightful hubbub.Meanwhile the smoke thickened around him, and a dull ominous glare brokeout from the midst of the building, against which his weazen little facelooked pallid as death.
"His father will be too late," groaned Mr. Sylvester, feeling himselfsomehow to blame for the child's horrible situation; then observing thatthe other occupants of the building had all disappeared towards thefront, realized that whatever fire-escapes may have been provided, weredoubtless in that direction, and raising his voice once more, called outacross the yard, "Don't wait any longer, little fellow; follow the restto the front; you will be burned if you stay there."
But the child did not move, only held out his arms in a way to unman thestrongest heart; and presently while Mr. Sylvester was asking himselfwhat could be done, he heard his shrill piping tones rising above thehiss of the flames, and listening, caught the words:
"I cannot get away. She is holding me, Dad. Help your little feller;help me, I'm so afraid of being burnt." And looking closer, Mr.Sylvester discerned the outlines of a woman's head and shoulders abovethe small white face.
A distinct and positive fear at once seized him. Leaning out, the betterto display his own face and figure, he called to that unknown woman toquit her hold and let the child go; but a discordant laugh, rising abovethe roar of the approaching flames, was his only reply. Sickened withapprehension, he drew back and himself made for the stairs in the wildidea of finding the father. But just then the mad figure of Holtappeared at the door, with frenzy in all his looks.
"I cannot push through the crowd," cried he, "I have fought andstruggled and shrieked, but it is all of no use. My boy is burning aliveand I cannot reach him." A lurid flame shot at that moment from thebuilding before them, as if in emphasis to his words.
"He is prisoned there by a woman," cried Mr. Sylvester, pointing to thefigure whose distorted outlines was every moment becoming more and morevisible in the increasing glare. "See, she has him tight in her arms andis pressing him against the window-sill."
The man with a terrible recoil, looked in the direction of his child,saw the little white face with its wild expression of conscious terror,saw the face of her who towered implacably behind it, and shriekedappalled.
"Jacqueline!" he cried, and put his hands up before his face as if hiseyes had fallen upon an avenging spirit.
"Is that Jacqueline Japha?" asked Mr. Sylvester, dragging down theother's hands and pointing relentlessly towards the ominous figure inthe window before him.
"Yes, or her ghost," cried the other, shuddering under a horror thatleft him little control of his reason.
"Then your boy is lost," murmured Mr. Sylvester, with a vividremembrance of the words he had overheard. "She will never save herrival's child, never."
The man looked at him with dazed eyes. "She shall save him," he cried,and stretching far out of the window by which he stood, he pointed tothe bridge and called out, "Drop him, Jacqueline, don't let him burn. Hecan still reach the next house if he runs. Save my darling, save him."
But the woman as if waiting for his voice, only threw back her head, andwhile a bursting flame flashed up behind her, shrieked mockingly back:
"Oh I have frightened you up at last, have I? You can see me now, canyou? You can call on Jacqueline now? The brat can make you speak, canhe? Well, well, call away, I love to hear your voice. It is music to meeven in the face of death."
"My boy! my boy," was all he could gasp; "save the child, Jacqu
eline,only save the child!"
But the harsh scornful laugh she returned, spoke little of saving. "Heis so dear," she hissed. "I love the offspring of my rival so much! thechild that has taken the place of my own darling, dead before ever I hadseen its innocent eyes. Oh yes, yes, I will save it, save it as my ownwas saved. When I saw the puny infant in your arms the day you passed mewith _her_, I swore to be its friend, don't you remember! And I am somuch of a one that I stick by him to the death, don't you see?" Andraising him up in her arms till his whole stunted body was visible, sheturned away her brow and seemed to laugh in the face of the flames.
The father writhed below in his agony. "Forgive," he cried, "forgive thepast and give me back my child. It's all I have to love; it's all I'veever loved. Be merciful, Jacqueline, be merciful!"
Her face flashed back upon him, still and white. "And what mercy haveyou ever shown to me! Fool, idiot, don't you see I have lived for thishour! To make you feel for once; to make you suffer for once as I havesuffered. You love the boy! Roger Holt, I once loved you."
And heedless of the rolling volume of smoke that now began to pourtowards her, heedless even of the long tongues of hungry flame that werestretched out as if feeling for her from the distance behind, she stoodimmovable, gazing down upon the casement where he knelt, with anindescribable and awful smile upon her lips.
The sight was unbearable. With an instinct of despair both men drewback, when suddenly they saw the woman start, unloose her clasp and dropthe child out of her arms upon the bridge. A hissing stream of water hadfallen upon the flames, and the shock had taken her by surprise. In amoment the father was himself again.
"Get up, little feller, get up," he cried, "or if you cannot walk, crawlalong the bridge to the next house. I see a fireman there; he will liftyou in."
But at that moment the flames, till now held under some control, burstfrom an adjoining window, and caught at the woodwork of the bridge. Thefather yelled in dismay.
"Hurry, little feller, hurry!" he cried. "Get over towards the nexthouse before it is too late."
But a paralysis seemed to have seized the child; he arose, then stopped,and looking wildly about, shook his head. "I cannot," he cried, "Icannot." And the woman laughed, and with a hug of her empty arms, seemedto throw her taunts into the space before her.
"Are you a demon?" burst from Mr. Sylvester's lips in uncontrollablehorror. "Don't you see you can save him if you will? Jump down, then,and carry him across, or your father's curse will follow you to theworld beyond."
"Yes, climb down," cried the fireman, "you are lighter than I. Don'twaste a minute, a second."
"It is your own child, Jacqueline, your own child!" came from Holt'swhite lips in final desperation. "I have deceived you; your baby did notdie; I wanted to get rid of you and I wanted to save him, so I lied toyou. The baby did not die; he lived, and that is he you see lyinghelpless on the bridge beneath you."
Not the clutch of an advancing flame could have made her shrink morefearfully. "It is false," she cried; "you are lying now; you want me tosave _her_ child, and dare to say it is mine."
"As God lives!" he swore, lifting his hand and turning his face to thesky.
Her whole attitude seemed to cry, "No, no," to his assertion but slowlyas she stood there, the conviction of its truth seemed to strike her,and her hair rose on her forehead and she swayed to and fro, as if theearth were rolling under her feet. Suddenly she gave a yell, and boundedfrom the window. Catching the child in her arms, she attempted to regainthe refuge beyond, but the flames had not dallied at their work whileshe hesitated. The bridge was on fire and her retreat was cut off. Shedid not attempt to escape. Stopping in the centre of the rocking mass,she looked down as only a mother in her last agony can do, on the childshe held folded in her arms; then as the flames caught at her floatinggarments, stooped her head and printed one wild and passionate kiss uponhis brow. Another instant and they saw her head rise to the accusingheavens, then all was rush and horror, and the swaying structure fellbefore their eyes, sweeping its living freight into the courtyardbeneath their feet.