“I will bring them,” said the young lady, Dwight's daughter.
“Do make haste, Miss,” urged Justice Barker. “The mob is even now forcing an entrance.”
“I forbid you to bring them. Remain here,” thundered Dwight.
The girl paused, irresolute, pale and terrified.
“Go, Eliza,” said her mother. “Disobey your father and save his life.”
She went, and in a moment returned with the articles. Perez wrote two lines, and read them.
“'We promise not to act under our commissions until the grievances of which the people complain are redressed.' Now sign that, and quickly, or it will be too late.”
“Do you order us to sign?” said Barker, apparently willing to find in this appearance of duress an excuse for yielding.
“Not at all,” replied Perez. “If you think you can make better terms with the people for yourselves, you are welcome to try. I should judge from the racket that they're on the point of coming in.”
There was a hoarse howl from without, and Justices Goodrich, Barker and Whiting simultaneously grabbed for the pen. Their names were affixed in a trice.