At last, after a pause, while the bull stood, covered with blood and foam, watching for the attack of the next adversary, a brindled terrier, after receiving some cruel thrusts from the tortured animal, sprang with unerring aim at its throat, and clung there with such a desperate grip, that its giant strength, exhausted by the long conflict, gave way. The bull rolled over on his side with a roar of agony, and the victorious dog, with his eyes starting out of his head, and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, was borne off by his backer, amidst the cheers and acclamations of the excited crowd.
"Ah!" Lord Maythorne said, "I had a heavy bet on that dog, so I am in luck's way for once. Now, Gratian, as the play is played out, for the bull will show no more fight to-day, if ever again, shall we make our way back to the palace?"
Even Gratian felt a little sickened and disgusted. She clung to Lord Maythorne's arm, and was thankful when she found herself once more within the palace grounds.
The noise and uproar in the market-place after the bull-baiting had scarcely ceased when the space was cleared for the bonfire, and preparations began for the great finale of the day.
As soon as it was dark, squibs and crackers were flying in every direction, while those who ventured forth were in some danger of having their clothes set on fire by the scattered sparks. A party from the palace went forth about eight o'clock to see the illumination of the bonfire, gaining easy access to the offices of the Bishop's secretary, which were situated between the two gateways, one called Penniless Porch, the other the Palace Eye, both at the top of the market square. Those who had turned away with disgust from the bull-fight, yet felt it almost their duty to be present at the great Protestant demonstration of fire and burning. So that the windows of the office were filled by the palace party, amongst whom were members of the Bishop's family.
Penniless Porch, Wells.
It was indeed a sight never to be forgotten when the huge bonfire was lighted, and the flames leaped up to the sky. The quaint old houses in the market square were illuminated with a ruddy glow, and the cathedral towers caught the fitful radiance, and stood up against the murky November sky with a flush of crimson on their hoary heads. The shouting and the tumult reached its height when Guy Fawkes' great effigy fell into the burning mass, and cries of "No Popery!" "Down with the Catholics!" were taken up, by every little screaming urchin, who, with burned fingers and scorched cheeks, thought he was doing good service to some cause, though, if he and half that seething crowd had been questioned as to why they came together, the "more part," as in times of old, could not have given an answer.
A great wrong once done, which fastens on the mind of a nation, and is handed down as a subject of everlasting indignation from generation to generation, must be expected to demand outward demonstration. Thus the fires of Smithfield, and the secret plot of the conspirators beneath the hall at Westminster, have never been forgotten.
The people still hunger for some expression of their wrath, and do not wait to ask if that expression takes a wholesome form.