“More shame for him then,” cried Thisbe. “Why arn’t he here to protect his wife and bairn?”
At that moment a fierce yelling and cheering was heard upstairs, where the mob had reached the attic door and detected that it was locked on the inside.
The door was strong, but double the strength would not have held it against the fierce onslaught made, and in another minute, amidst fierce yelling, the tide began to set back, as the word was passed down, “They’ve got him.”
Millicent’s brain reeled, and for a few moments she seemed to lose consciousness; but as she saw Hallam, pale, bleeding, his hair torn and dishevelled, dragged down the stairs by the infuriated mob, her love gave her strength. Wresting herself from those who would have restrained her, she forced her way to her husband’s side, flung her arms about him as he was driven back against the wall, and, turning her defiant face to the mob, made of her own body a shield.
There was a moment’s pause, then a yell, and the leader’s voice cried:
“Never mind her. Hev him out, lads, and then clear the house.”
There was a fresh roar at this, and then blows were struck right and left in the dim light; the lamp was dashed over; while the curtains by the window, where it stood, blazed up, and cast a lurid light over the scene. For a moment the crowd recoiled as they saw the flushed and bleeding face of Christie Bayle, as he struck out right and left till he had fought his way to where he could plant himself before Millicent and her husband, and try to keep the assailants back.
The surprise was only of a few minutes’ duration.
“You lads, he’s only one. Come on! Hallam: Let’s judge and jury him.”
“You scoundrels!” roared Bayle, “a man must be judged by his country, and not by such ruffians as you.”