“Who should come?” the girl cried to me. “Who should knock so? Your friends—have you friends like to come? Or friends of Charles Craike and the folk within the house?”
Dazed yet, but calling to mind Sir Gavin’s promise, I said, “I think my friends—I hope—I’ll go and open the door!”
“No, no!” cried she. “Stay here in the light! You’re safer in the light. I’ll go!” and instantly sped from the room.
With my back to the fire, and my fingers set upon the pistol, I stood and looked at Oliver; he sat at table still, seeming drunken and insensible of the old man’s sudden sickness, the tumult of the storm, the knocking at the door. But his dull, tragical, young eyes meeting mine, I was amazed to hear him give expression to my first fantastic thought, “Death and the Devil knock! They’re come for him! Hark!”
The door from the hall swung open. I saw the faces—the old brown faces and the evil eyes of the rogues; I knew how they hated me; what shift I should have at their hands, if but the word came down that their stricken master was dead. I heard them gibe and mutter; I heard the woman Barwise’s voice cracked and shrill, “Ay, he’ll not lord it over us. No longer! Ay, by the Lord he’ll not!”—but her sudden scream, “Who’s that? Who let you in?”
Mr. Bradbury cried out from the hall, “By your leave, Mistress Barwise,—by your leave!”
At this I rushed to the door, and met him thrusting his way among the crowding rogues. He came in calm and trim, flinging back his cloak, and drawing off his gloves. He gave me his hand, and exclaiming, “Ah, my dear sir!” demanded, “What’s to do here? What’s all this chattering and clattering? Why am I kept waiting at the door on a night like this? What’s to do?”
“My grandfather!” I gasped. “Sick! Dying maybe—”
“So!” he said, swiftly, and an instant I saw perturbation in his look. He had not come alone. I saw three tall fellows, great-coated armed with bludgeons, standing in the doorway, and at their back the malignant, baffled faces of the rogues. The two runners and a third fellow—a huge figure, vaguely familiar to me, though he was muffled about his jaws, and kept his hat tilted over his nose, so that I could not see his face. Oliver lay back in his chair, seeming sodden with drink.
“Thrale!” cried Mr. Bradbury, “Mistress Barwise—some of you!”