'Drownlands!' shouted a young voice, and Mark Runham thrust his way through the crowd. 'I pray you be reasonable. You will provoke bloodshed.'
'What, you there? You a ringleader in riots?' exclaimed Drownlands, lowering his fowling-piece.
'I am not that. Let me come within.'
Then Mark stood on the waggon-shafts and called to the crowd—
'Refrain from violence! Leave me to manage Master Drownlands. I will engage him to let you have the money you require.'
Then he jumped down from the shafts and ran up the steps.
The door had been bolted and chained by the housekeeper, but Zita, hearing what Mark said, without waiting for orders, descended to the ground floor, and unbarred the door, and admitted him. He ran upstairs, for no time was to be lost. The mob was restless and irritated. It was impatient to be on its way to Ely, and yet was reluctant to leave Prickwillow without having drawn money from it, or done some mischief.
Drownlands was too angry to listen to advice. He would not hear of coming to terms with the rabble. He had been too long accustomed to domineer over the labourers to fear them now. He in no way realised how much courage is given by association in numbers.
'What are you here for? How dare you enter uninvited?' he exclaimed, as Mark came into the office, followed by Zita.
'I admitted him,' said the girl. 'He has come in your interest.'