Leaving Eastcheap and its grimy tenements, they emerged from New Fish Street and saw the gleam of the river ahead of them.
At this moment one of the following crowd, more enterprising than his fellows, ran close up behind Rebecca and, clutching the edge of her jacket, sought to restrain her.
"Toll, lass, toll!" he shouted. "Who gave thee leave to run races in London streets?"
Rebecca became suddenly fully conscious for the first time of the sensation she had created. Stopping short, she swung herself free and looked her bold assailant fairly in the face.
"Well, young feller," she said, with icy dignity, "what can I do fer you?"
The loafer fell back as she turned, and when she had spoken, he turned in mock alarm and fled, crying as he ran:
"Save us—save us! Ugly and old as a witch, I trow!"
Those in the background caught his final words and set up a new cry which boded Rebecca no good.
"A witch—a witch! Seize her! Stone her!"
As they now hung back momentarily in a new dread, self-created in their superstitious minds, Rebecca turned again to the chase, but was sorely put out to find that her pause had given the supposed Droop the advantage of a considerable gain. He was now not far from the river side. Hoping he could go no farther, she set off once more in pursuit, observing silence in order to save her breath.