The man Oxham swung up his stick, Sir John stepped lightly back, and his hands flashed to view, each grasping a small, silver-mounted pocket-pistol, very arresting for all their lack of size. “Look’ee, fellow,” quoth he, “I ha’ no particular desire for your blood, but come one step nearer, you or any o’ your men, and I break that man’s leg!”
“Don’t believe him, lads!” cried Sturton. “He’d never dare; the law’s behind us; he’d never dare shoot; ’twould mean hanging or transportation.”
“Very well,” answered Sir John; “pray step forward, Mr. Sturton, and see for yourself.”
“Aye,” quoth Mr. Oxham, “you lead the way, Sturton, an’ we’ll foller!”
Mr. Sturton scowled at the threatening pistol-muzzles, at the serenely determined face behind them, and hesitated, as well he might.
And then, all in a moment, Sir John found matters taken entirely out of his hands; he saw an out-thrust, shapely arm, felt himself pushed aside with surprising ease, and my lady was between him and his would-be assailants. For a moment she faced the astonished crowd proudly contemptuous, and when she addressed them her disdain was such that despite hot anger she never thought to swear.
“Animals,” said she, “get out of my sight!”
For a moment was amazed silence, then rose a murmur, an angry growl.
“Who be the likes o’ her to miscall the likes o’ we?” cried a voice. “She be nobody—look at ’er gownd!”
Then Mr. Oxham spoke: