'Hear! hear! We say the same!' Then ensued shouts of, 'Kick him down! Duck him! Chuck him into the Lark!'
In a moment Beamish was plucked out of the waggon, flapping his long arms in protest and entreaty, was jostled, beaten, kicked, and finally thrown into the dyke—the one honest and sincere man among the leaders of the rabble.
'Now then, mates,' called Chevell, 'it is right and proper that we should elect another commander.'
'We want no commanders!' shouted the mob. 'We know what we want! We will all be commanders! Are we not the general public?'
'Then I vote,' cried Harley, 'that we lose no more time, but move on to Ely.'
Zita was helped out of the cart. The improvised torches were set in motion, forming a line of fire as the whole mob of rioters left the farm, and marched along the dark embankment, whilst the waggon bounced below on the drove.
As Zita stood by the van, which she had thrust back with the aid of Jewel into the shed, a hand was laid on hers.
'Zita!'
The voice was that of Mark.
'Oh, Mark!'