The leaders of the mob reached the hut. With angry exclamations, they came to a sudden halt, as they beheld the daughter of the Prophet barring the entrance.
“La Violette must stand aside!” shouted a burly warrior. “We want the young paleface. We mean to kill him—to tear him limb from limb!”
The girl neither spoke nor moved; but she sternly fastened her eyes upon the speaker—and he recoiled a step.
“Out of the way! Out of the way!” bellowed the mob.
“Never!” she answered in clear, ringing tones.
They surged forward, threatening to crush her under foot. She did not flinch, but raising her voice to the highest pitch, cried imperiously:
“Hold! I—La Violette—command you!”
They wavered—faltered—paused.
Taking advantage of their temporary indecision, she continued breathlessly: