lads? Now for the rosin! Blaze ’un out.”
But, in the eager scuffle, the torch, the only one alight, was knocked down and trodden out. A volley of oaths arose, though whose fault it was no one seemed to know; but I missed my man from behind the tree — nor found him till after the angry throng had rushed on to the nearest lamp. One of them was left behind, standing close to our own railings. He looked round to see if none were by, and then sprang over the gate. Dark as it was I thought I recognized him.
“John?”
“Phineas?” He was beside me in a bound. “How could you do —”
“I could do anything to-night. But you are safe; no one has harmed you. Oh, thank God, you are not hurt!”
And I clung to his arm — my friend, whom I had missed so long, so sorely.
He held me tight — his heart felt as mine, only more silently.
“Now, Phineas, we have a minute’s time. I must have you safe — we must get into the house.”
“Who is there?”
“Jael; she is as good as a host of constables; she has braved the fellows once to-night, but they’re back again, or will be directly.”
“And the mill?”
“Safe, as yet; I have had three of the tan-yard men there since yesterday morning, though your father did not know. I have been going to and fro all night, between there and here, waiting till the rioters should come back from the Severn mills. Hist! — here they are — I say, Jael?”
He tapped at the window. In a few seconds Jael had unbarred the door, let us in, and closed it again securely, mounting guard behind it with something that looked very like my father’s pistols, though I would not discredit her among our peaceful society by positively stating the fact.
“Bravo!” said John, when we stood all together in the barricaded house, and heard the threatening murmur of voices and feet outside. “Bravo, Jael! The wife of Heber the Kenite was no braver woman than you.”
She looked gratified, and followed John obediently from room to room.
“I have done all as thee bade me — thee art a sensible lad, John Halifax. We are secure, I think.”
Secure? bolts and bars secure against fire? For that was threatening us now.
“They can’t mean it — surely they can’t mean it,” repeated John, as the cry of “Burn ’un out!” rose louder and louder.
But they did mean it. From the attic window we watched them light torch after torch, sometimes throwing one at the house — but it fell harmless against the staunch oaken door, and blazed itself out on our stone steps. All it did was to show more plainly than even daylight had shown, the gaunt, ragged forms and pinched faces, furious with famine.
John, as well as I, recoiled at that miserable sight.
“I’ll speak to them,” he said. “Unbar the window, Jael;” and before I could hinder, he was leaning right out. “Holloa, there!”
At his loud and commanding voice a wave of up-turned faces surged forward, expectant.
“My men, do you know what you are about? To burn down a gentleman’s house is — hanging.”
There was a hush, and then a shout of derision.
“Not a Quaker’s! nobody’ll get hanged for burning out a Quaker!”
“That be true enough,” muttered Jael between her teeth. “We must e’en fight, as Mordecai’s people fought, hand to hand, until they slew their enemies.”
“Fight!” repeated John, half to himself, as he stood at the now-closed window, against which more than one blazing torch began to rattle. “Fight — with these? — What are you doing, Jael?”
For she had taken down a large Book — the last Book in the house she would have taken under less critical circumstances, and with it was trying to stop up a broken pane.
“No, my good Jael, not this;” and he carefully replaced the volume; that volume, in which he might have read, as day after day, and year after year, we Christians generally do read, such plain words as these —“Love your enemies;” “bless them that curse you;” “pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you.”
A minute or two John stood with his hand on the Book, thinking. Then he touched me on the shoulder.
“Phineas, I’m going to try a new plan — at least, one so old, that it’s almost new. Whether it succeeds or no, you’ll bear me witness to your father that I did it for the best, and did it because I thought it right. Now for it.”
To my horror, he threw up the window wide, and leant out.
“My men, I want to speak to you.”
He might as well have spoken to the roaring sea. The only answer was a shower of missiles, which missed their aim. The rioters were too far off — our spiked iron railings, eight feet high or more, being a barrier which none had yet ventured to climb. But at length one random stone hit John on the chest.
I pulled him in, but he declared he was not hurt. Terrified, I implored him not to risk his life.
“Life is not always the first thing to be thought of,” said he, gently. “Don’t be afraid — I shall come to no harm. But I MUST do what I think right, if it is to be done.”
While he spoke, I could hardly hear him for the bellowings outside. More savage still grew the cry —
“Burn ’em out! burn ’em out! They be only Quakers!”
“There’s not a minute to lose — stop — let me think — Jael, is that a pistol?”
“Loaded,” she said, handing it over to him with a kind of stern delight. Certainly, Jael was not meant to be a Friend.
John ran down-stairs, and before I guessed his purpose, had unbolted the hall-door, and stood on the flight of steps, in full view of the mob.
There was no bringing him back, so of course I followed. A pillar sheltered me — I do not think he saw me, though I stood close behind him.
So sudden had been his act, that even the rioters did not seem to have noticed, or clearly understood it, till the next lighted torch showed them the young man standing there, with his back to the door — OUTSIDE the door.
The sight fairly confounded them. Even I felt that for the moment he was safe. They were awed — nay, paralyzed, by his daring.
But the storm raged too fiercely to be lulled, except for one brief minute. A confusion of voices burst out afresh —
“Who be thee?”—“It’s one o’ the Quakers.”—“No, he bean’t.”—“Burn ’un, anyhow.”—“Touch ’un, if ye dare.”
There was evidently a division arising. One big man, who had made himself very prominent all along, seemed trying to calm the tumult.
John stood his ground. Once a torch was flung at him — he stooped and picked it up. I thought he was going to hurl it back again, but he did not; he only threw it down, and stamped it out safely with his foot. This simple action had a wonderful effect on the crowd.
The big fellow advanced to the gate and called John by his name.
“Is that you, Jacob Baines? I am sorry to see you here.”
“Be ye, sir.”
“What do you want?”
“Nought wi’ thee. We wants Abel Fletcher. Where is ‘um?”
“I shall certainly not tell you.”
As John said this again the noise