"Danger?"
She was moved now. Her eyes, wide open, fixed the Judge piercingly. He promptly hedged.
"Oh, well, I don't mean actual danger, of course—life and limb.... I mean,—why, I mean his career, that's all. But he doesn't give a—doesn't think of that. I must run."
The Judge fled ignominiously.
Mary sat still. Her mind moved rapidly enough when her emotion was stirred. In a flash she had pieced together the Judge's words—his hurry and Laurence's—the revolver—Laurence's reference to the mob and his saying he had been sworn in to defend Barclay. She saw it now—certainly he was in danger, actual danger. She wondered she had been so stupid, not to see it before, not to feel it when he said good-bye.
The girl came in to clear the table, and Mary remembered that it was time for young James' nap. She went quickly out on the porch, picked him up and carried him upstairs. When he was tucked into his crib, she put on her bonnet and light shawl, and went down to look at the baby, who was sleeping. She did not like leaving the children, she always got her mother to stay with them if she went out, but now she would not stop for that. She sent a message to her mother by a passing neighbour, and hurried down the street toward the square.
Afterwards she remembered it shuddering, with the vividness of a bad dream that has startled one from sleep. The crowd in the square, in which she was caught at once, it seemed without the possibility of getting forward or getting out. Waves of motion passed through this crowd. She was pushed on, pushed back. Those near her seemed as helpless as herself. A group of men about her tried to protect her, but they too were swept on by the mass, sometimes a rush would almost carry them off their feet. The frills of her dress were torn, her shawl wrenched off her shoulders. In a sudden pressure that nearly crushed her she cried out sharply. Her defenders, fighting back savagely, made a united effort and beat their way across the sidewalk, up some steps, lifting her into the embrasure of a closed shop-door, and there they formed a line before her.
She leaned against the wall, panting and faint, and looked over their shoulders at the swaying crowd. All those faces—a vague blur, like the noise that came from that mass of men—something bewildered, indefinite, a formless suggestion of violence. It was a mob without leaders. The feeling was there, the vague intent, but without shape.
Above the groundswell of the crowd a voice was ringing out, deep and powerful. Across the square, on the courthouse steps, Hilary Robertson was speaking. Through the light veil of maple-branches, at the top of the long crowded flight of steps, she could see him. His voice reached her, not the words but the tones, sharp and hard, not pleading, rather menacing, commanding, flashing like a keen sword of wrath. Now he lifted his arm, with clenched fist, in an imperious gesture....