“What do you want, men?” she called out, in her clear, fearless voice. “What has happened?”
There was a confused murmur of voices in reply. Most of the men were decent enough fellows, when sober. Some one was heard to suggest a retreat: “No need to scare the young lady. ’Tain’t her fault!”
“Aw! shut up, you coward!” shouted another. “We want our money!”
“Where did you get yer money?” demanded a third. “You tell us that, young woman. That’s what we’re after!”
“Where’s the old thief? ...We want Andrew Bolton!”
Then from somewhere in the darkness a pebble flung by a reckless hand shattered a pane of glass. At sound of the crash all pretense of decency and order seemed abandoned. The spirit of the pack broke loose!
Just what happened from the moment when he leaped upon the portico, wrenching loose a piece of iron pipe which formed the support of a giant wistaria, Jim Dodge could never afterward recall in precise detail. A sort of wild rage seized him; he struck right and left among the dark figures swarming up the steps. There were cries, shouts, curses, flying stones; then he had dragged Lydia inside and bolted the heavy door between them and the ugly clamor without.
She faced him where he stood, breathing hard, his back against the barred door.
“They were saying—” she whispered, her face still and white. “My God! What do they think I’ve done?”
“They’re drunk,” he explained. “It was only a miserable rabble from the barroom in the village. But if you’d been here alone—!”