As Joyce stood waiting to see the surgeon of the ward where Bob Priday lay, a man came rushing in.
"The mob are in the Mansion House," he said; "they are throwing out the furniture; it is worse than ever."
"Where are the authorities?" asked one of the surgeons, who had a roll of bandages in his hand.
"Rushing away, for their lives, like cats on the roofs of the houses. They are hunting for Colonel Brereton, and calling upon all the people in College Green to come to the aid of the magistrates in the King's name."
"And the magistrates climbing over the roofs of the houses; dear, dear!" said the old surgeon. "Pray, madam," he said, turning to Joyce, "is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes," Joyce said; "this young woman's father is dying in one of the wards."
"What ward? what ward? We are all so busy."
"He was brought in yesterday by a gentleman whose head had been hurt; Mr. Arundel, one of the special constables."
"All right—yes—this way, madam; but let me advise you to make short work of your visit, and get back to your own house! this way."