There rose a murmur among them then, and the next instant this murmur was a cry.
“Ay,” they answered, “we con aw speak fur yo'. Let her go, lads! She's worth two o' th' best on yo'. Nowt fears her. Ay, she mun go, if she will, mun Joan Lowrie! Go, Joan, lass, and we'n not forget thee!”
But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of them shrank from giving a woman a place in such a perilous undertaking—the coarser element in others rebelled against it.
“We'n ha' no wenches,” these said, surlily.
Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched her gently on the shoulder.
“We cannot think of it,” he said. “It is very brave and generous, and—God bless you!—but it cannot be. I could not think of allowing it myself, if the rest would.”
“Parson,” said Joan coolly, but not roughly, “tha'd ha' hard work to help thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'.”
“But,” he protested, “it may be death. I could not bear the thought of it. You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your life.”
She turned to the volunteers.
“Lads,” she cried, passionately, “yo' munnot turn me back. I—sin I mun tell yo'——” and she faced them like a queen,—“theer's a mon down theer as I'd gi' my heart's blood to save.”