McTaggart swore out aloud. He was fighting his way, using his fists, forcing a path mercilessly.
Again he caught a glimpse of the girl. Thank God! it was not Jill.
As he paused to get his breath, an old hag with an evil face sprang up toward the victim and clutched at a streaming lock of hair. With a coarse laugh she tore at it, the claw-like fingers with their trophy waved aloft, as again a scream rent the air and the crowd cheered.
McTaggart's blood went cold at the sight. It was horrible enough for men to lay their rough hands on a girl, but a fellow-woman, a mother, perhaps? He felt physically sick.
For a moment, wedged in and powerless, his brain flashed up another picture, that of the French Revolution and the foul women of the Halles, pressing round the guillotine to dip their hands in the blood of the victims. Was this what Woman's Rights involved?—this civil war among themselves?
And then above the angry hum a clear and brave young voice rang out:
"Votes for Women!"
McTaggart groaned, pride and agony in his heart.
"Jill!"—he shouted with all his strength—"Jill! where are you?"
He felt the serried ranks slacken as the crowd swung back to this new offender.