"Certainly," said Forsythe, but he added, logically: "Would you be bound by the customs of a colony of mice, if they interfered with your pursuit of greater ends?"
"Listen at him!" cried Truggles, turning to the crowd and spreading his hands. "You see what high regard he has for you, who have befriended him? He scorns you! He calls you mice!"
He turned back to the mansion with clenched fists and took a step forward.
"You monster!" he shouted. "Even mice can be dangerous!"
The crowd behind him surged forward with a roar. Forsythe's voice rang out above it.
"Wait!" he cried. "I appeal to your reason! I have no higher power. I can't strike you dead, or vanish from your sight. All I can do is ask you one question. Will you destroy me because I violate your customs, when I represent the hope of your race to become something greater?"
His words fell on deaf ears. The crowd inched forward, ugly, dangerous.
A figure brushed past Truggles. It was Phyllis Allison, and she tugged the boy Donald with her.
"Stop her!" cried Truggles. "Don't let her get in his clutches!"
Alone, for these words seemed only to confuse those near him, Truggles ran after Phyllis and the boy. But they stopped, halfway to the porch, and Truggles reached them. He placed his hand on Phyllis' arm and pulled at her compellingly.