CHAPTER V.
“Guilty!” “Condemned to death!” “Hector D’Estrange a woman!” The words have passed through the court, along the corridors, and out into the street beyond, where the crowds press eagerly forward to hear the news. It is received at first with astonishment and incredulity. Some people call it a hoax, others laugh at the statement as a wild improbability, and wonder what the real truth is. But even as they discuss the rumour, a movement is visible opposite the court, as an officer of the White Guards’ Regiment makes her appearance outside. An orderly mounted on a grey horse is holding an empty-saddled white one in readiness, and as the officer makes her appearance, brings the steed alongside the steps leading up to the entrance.
The officer is no stranger to the crowd. Flora Desmond’s features are well known to it. Is she not the leader of Hector D’Estrange’s especial regiment, a regiment entirely drawn from the women of “the people”? Whatever may be the feeling of the middle class and a portion of that one which claims to rank above it, in regard to Hector D’Estrange, one thing is certain, that amidst the poor and the needy, amidst the suffering and the struggling, that name is a talisman to conjure by.
She comes down the steps hurriedly, and mounts her horse in haste. The crowd sways and presses towards her in spite of the efforts of large numbers of police to repress them.
“The verdict?” they shout inquiringly. “Tell us the verdict!”
She stands up in her stirrups and looks at that sea of faces. Enemies there may be amongst them, hundreds, perhaps, antagonistic to Hector D’Estrange, but amidst the rough faces of the thousands that press around her, she knows that the majority are true as steel.
“Guilty!” she calls out. “He is condemned to die! I mistake the people, however, if they will believe the verdict or acquiesce in the sentence. Say you, whom he loves, whose hard lot he has struggled to raise, will you permit it?”
“Never!” comes the fierce shout from hundreds, nay, thousands of throats. “Hector D’Estrange shall not die!”
“I knew it,” she replies proudly. “Justice shall be upheld. I knew the people would be true to him, men as well as women. He shall not die!”
They cheer and cheer again as she makes her way through the crowd followed by her orderly. It gives room to her willingly, and opens a passage for her horse. She rides along rapidly in the direction of a quiet side street, well away from the thronging crowd of people. Even as she does so the rumbling wheels of the prison-van strike on her ear. She can see it approaching, surrounded by a strong force of police, and as she does so, she urges on her horse.
Flora Desmond passes rapidly along the quiet, deserted street, until she nearly reaches the end, and then turns her horse down a narrow alley leading therefrom. This brings her into a wide, spacious yard, around which a big square building is built, in the centre of which is a large archway with strong iron gates, guarded by two mounted sentries. They salute her as she rides up, and the iron gates are unlocked at once. She rides through them, and enters what appears to be an immense riding-school, in which are drawn up a hundred troopers of the White Regiment. Her eye scans them keenly and rapidly. They are in perfect order, and look fit for any work. Every face is turned towards her.
“Hector D’Estrange has been declared guilty,” she says in a clear, distinct voice, “and is condemned to die! I am here to lead you to his rescue. If any one is to die, it shall be we who will do so, not him. Follow me, guards. There is not a moment to be lost.”
She places herself at their head. They pass out into the courtyard, and the gates are locked behind them. The sentries fall into their places, and the troopers, six abreast, follow in the wake of their gallant-hearted leader. At a smart trot they pass down the quiet street. In the distance they can hear the roar of the crowd, which is cheering loudly; and they know that Hector D’Estrange is being removed to the prison from which his accusers hope never again to see him issue.
They are nearing the crowd now, for it is surging their way. The prison-van is coming along at a smart pace, guarded by its bevy of policemen. It is not a hundred yards from where Flora Desmond, at the head of her hundred and two guards, sits motionless on her horse, for she has called a halt, and is awaiting their coming.
Suddenly she stands up in her stirrups and turns to her troopers. At the same moment she draws her sword.
“Forward!” she cries, waving it above her head. “Forward, guards of his regiment; rescue him or die!”
She has put her horse in motion as she speaks, and with the rush of a whirlwind the White Guards bear down upon the prison-van. The policemen catch sight of them coming, and close around it manfully. The driver whips up the horses, and urges them along at a canter. “Of what avail?” The White Guards are upon them; nothing can withstand the charge. It is the work of a moment.
“Sever the traces; cut the horses loose!” shouts Flora Desmond, as she gallops up alongside one of the animals, and, seizing its rein, brings it up on to its haunches, one of the troopers doing likewise by the other.
They obey her promptly and rapidly, while the remainder engage the police escort, who resist gallantly. “Of what avail?” The crowd has closed round, willing and eager to assist in the work of rescue. The odds are too great to allow the representatives of law and order to prevail.
Twice over Flora Desmond has summoned the policeman inside to unlock the door of the van, but he stands to his guns and refuses. “If you do not,” she cries, “I shall be forced to fire through the lock until I break it, and the bullets may injure you. Come, man, no use resisting now.”
But the policeman is staunch in the performance of what he considers his duty, and remains firm in his determination not to betray his trust.
“Then throw yourself flat on the ground, my man,” again calls out Flora Desmond, “for I am going to fire.”
She pauses for a moment to give him time to obey, then raises a revolver, and fires once, twice, thrice through the lock, which gives way at last. The crowd cheers loudly, the door of the van is flung open, and in a moment Flora Desmond is beside Gloria de Lara.
“Thank God!” she exclaims. “Here, come this way. I have a horse all ready for you.”
The policeman is lying motionless on the floor of the van. The two step across him, and pass quickly out of the wheeled prison. As they do so the people press forward to welcome their hero, for to them, in spite of the rumours, Gloria de Lara is still Hector D’Estrange. She has mounted her horse, and raised her hand to enjoin silence. The police escort has been overcome; its members are passively accepting what to them is the inevitable. They have sought to do their duty. They can do no more.
“Friends,” she calls out in the voice they know and love so well, “I have been unjustly accused and unjustly condemned. If it were not so, I would not accept the rescue brought me by my faithful women guards, aided by your kindly and generous devotion. My enemies are those who would fight against true progress, and the abolition of scandals and wrongs which must destroy this great nation with their wickedness, unless abolished in time. I have sought to probe to their root these scandals and these wrongs, have sought to submit to you the quickest and surest way to remedy them. I tell you that the greatest evils we have to face are the social ones. To them I ascribe all the sufferings and sins of the poor, the sins and false position of the rich. There are bad laws which must be done away with, good ones which must be set up to accomplish such social reform. Before you can do this you must set Nature on an even footing, and do away with the artificial barriers which you have raised against woman’s progress and advancement; for until she has the same powers and opportunities as man, a thorough and exhaustive reform of the evils which afflict Society, will never be efficiently undertaken.
“And now, my friends, we are on the eve of a great revolution. If the people will stand by me, I will stand by them. Let us loyally determine to carry this great question to a successful issue, nor rest till it has been accomplished. I am going to trust myself amongst those whom I have ever loved, whose condition I have sought to raise. Yet ere doing so, I have one confession to make to you. Hector D’Estrange, whose advancement has been rapid and unparalleled almost in the annals of statesmanship, must be no longer known to you under that name. The time has come when I must confess myself. Before you you see one of the despised and feeble sex, the unfitted to rule, the inferior of man. I am a woman! Henceforth I am no longer Hector D’Estrange, but Gloria de Lara.”
She has ceased speaking, and begun to move her horse through the crowd. Men and women press round her to kiss her hand. Poor men are more generous than rich ones. With rare exceptions, the fire of suffering purifies from self, and makes the heart appreciate true worth more readily. It is the people’s voice that generally forces on all great reforms; it is the people’s will that carries everything before it, when the reform required is a just one.
It never enters these men’s minds to depreciate her deeds, to belittle her acts, because she is a woman. Their reason tells them that she understands their wants, that her great heart is in sympathy with their needs, that she has sought to help them when in power, and that now her enemies have got the upper hand, all their loyalty and devotion is needed to support the cause, which she has told them lies at the root of all future social reform, which means progress, comfort, and happiness for the toiling millions. But there is a sound of many horses’ feet coming towards them, and all eyes are turned in the direction whence the sounds come. The ever-increasing crowd sways to and fro, expectant and anxious, instinctively apprehending what is to come.
“Form up, guards!” Flora Desmond’s voice is heard shouting. “Close round her, and defend her with your lives. It is not we who seek to spill blood, but if our rulers will have it so, then let it be. We will show them that woman is not the helpless coward they imagine. If necessary, we will fight to save her. Retreat in good order on Montragee House.”
They close round her, obedient to the order. The movement is executed silently but swiftly, and with an exactitude which speaks volumes for the discipline of the White Guards. “Shade of Whyte-Melville,” could ye arise now, you would behold your prophecy an accomplished fact, for the Amazons, whom you predicted, if rendered amenable to discipline, could conquer the world, are before you there. The sounds have assumed shape, and a troop of Horse Guards Blue, hastily turned out to support the arm of the law, are in view now. The horses have been ridden at a good pace, for the foam studs their black shining coats. At the word of command the troopers rein up.
The position is a difficult one. Between them and the White Guards a dense, impenetrable crowd is surging. To charge that crowd means death to many, yet it can only be compassed in this manner. The order which the officer in command has received is, however, specific. It is to disperse the crowd, to give every assistance to the police, and to recapture the prisoner at any cost.
It is a soldier’s duty to obey superior orders, nor question the why or wherefore. It is no part of a soldier’s duty to use his own discretion.
“His not to reason why,
His but to do and die.”
So at least thinks Colonel Jack Delamere, as his quick eye takes in the scene. Duty is a strange thing. It nerves the heart not only to physical but to moral deeds of courage. Surely it is no insignificant act of the latter which draws from that gallant officer the command to obey an order which he loathes, for, apart from all other considerations, Jack Delamere loves Flora Desmond, and knowing her as he does, he is aware that the order will probably mean death to the being for whom he would willingly sacrifice his own life.
“Make way, my friends,” he calls out imploringly to the people. “Make way, I beseech of you. My orders are to disperse the crowd, and I must obey them. If you do not make way, I shall be forced to order my men to charge.”
A loud shout of defiance is the only reply which he receives. There are heroes and heroines in that crowd. They are resolved that only over their trampled and crushed bodies, shall Jack Delamere and his Blues come up with the White Guards, who are retreating in good order with Gloria de Lara in their midst. Every minute is precious for this latter, and the crowd will do its best to afford these precious minutes.
There is a tremor in Jack Delamere’s voice as he once more puts his request. The crowd mistake it for a sign of anger, and defy him with jeers and sneers.
“Then be it so,” he says sadly, as with a heavy heart he gives the order which must bring death to many.
His men obey. The black horses charge into the swaying mass, and men and women go down before them. Some make a desperate fight for it before they succumb, clinging to the animals’ bridles, and attempting to force them back from their onward career. But the troopers have their swords out, and the unarmed cannot prevail over the armed. Nevertheless there is no surrender, no cry for quarter or mercy. The crowd are in earnest in their desire to let the White Guards get away with their beloved charge, and their resistance is dogged and determined.
The police have joined in, and are using their batons freely. Shouts and cries resound, and the crowd grows denser every moment, swelled by the numbers that have hastened to the scene. Dead and dying are lying on the cold stone pavements of the street. Even the latter are forgotten in the fierce fight that is raging, a fight undertaken by the people that the idol of their hearts may live.
It is an unequal contest, and can only end one way. Nigh every trooper has cut his way through at the expense of many a life. They are re-forming now, and with Jack Delamere at their head set off in pursuit of the White Guards, the crowd following as best it can in the rear.
But its devotion and sturdy resistance have given the start to Gloria de Lara’s escort, and ride as they may, the Blues on their black horses cannot come up with the lightly mounted greys of the White Guards. These flash along Whitehall at full speed, with their precious charge in their midst. Another moment, and the hoofs of the horses are clattering through the entrance to Montragee House. It is the work of an instant for the great folding doors to unclose. Once through them, and Gloria de Lara is safe. Flora Desmond has laid her hand on the bridle of this latter’s horse.
“Quick!” she exclaims. “Pass in there, Gloria. Ah! do not delay. Remember that your life means liberty to thousands. It is not a question of self. I know well how you would wish to stay and help us, but your duty is to preserve your life first. No one doubts your courage.”
“God bless you, Flora! Yes, I will do my duty, for the sake of the great cause that shall triumph.”
She springs from her horse as she speaks, and as one of the troopers leads it towards the stables, she turns to the others. “Brave guards,” she exclaims, “none know better than you that Gloria de Lara is grateful for your devotion and staunch loyalty.”
“We would die for you!” they shout enthusiastically, and many of their voices tremble. Even as they cease, the Duke of Ravensdale is on the threshold of his noble mansion. His hand is on Gloria’s arm.
“Great God be praised!” bursts from his white lips. “Gloria, they shall never touch you here!”
He draws her gently into the great front hall, and the door is closed and barred behind them. There is a triumphant smile on Flora Desmond’s features; her quick ear has caught the sound of galloping horses. “Do you hear them?” she laughs defiantly. “They come too late. Brave people! They have done their part well, and she is saved. Now follow me, guards. She has no need of us just yet. We must seek a safety for the future good that we may do, and for the sake of the cause we love. There is work ahead of us—hard work, and plenty too, for the revolution has begun!”
