“That’s it,” said the Bishop.
“With great indignity,” continued Field, “we must have ocular experience of the state of affairs, and I beg and recommend you therefore at once to let the Liberator enter.”
“None shall enter here,” replied the unseen guardian of the gate.
“That’s enough,” cried the Bishop.
“Beware!” said Field.
“Whether you let us in or not, ‘tis all the same,” said the Bishop; “I will have fire for your water, and I have come for that. Now lads!”
“Stop,” said the voice of the unseen. “I will speak to you.”
“He is going to let us in,” whispered Field to the Bishop.
And suddenly there appeared on the flat roof of the lodge that was on one side of the gates—Gerard. His air, his figure, his position were alike commanding, and at the sight of him a loud and spontaneous cheer burst from the assembled thousands. It was the sight of one who was after all the most popular leader of the people that had ever figured in these parts, whose eloquence charmed and commanded, whose disinterestedness was acknowledged, whose sufferings had created sympathy, whose courage, manly bearing, and famous feats of strength were a source to them of pride. There was not a Mowbray man whose heart did not throb with emotion, and whose memory did not recall the orations from the Druid’s altar and the famous meetings on the moor. “Gerard for ever” was the universal shout.
The Bishop who liked no one to be cheered except himself, like many great men, was much disgusted, a little perplexed. “What does all this mean?” he whispered to Field. “I came here to burn down the place.”