'Can you rest there?' he asked. But without waiting for her

answer, he went slowly down the steps right into the middle of

the crowd. 'Now kill me, if it is your brutal will. There is no

woman to shield me here. You may beat me to death--you will never

move me from what I have determined upon--not you!' He stood

amongst them, with his arms folded, in precisely the same

attitude as he had been in on the steps.

But the retrograde movement towards the gate had begun--as

unreasoningly, perhaps as blindly, as the simultaneous anger. Or,

perhaps, the idea of the approach of the soldiers, and the sight

of that pale, upturned face, with closed eyes, still and sad as

marble, though the tears welled out of the long entanglement of

eyelashes and dropped down; and, heavier, slower plash than even

tears, came the drip of blood from her wound. Even the most

desperate--Boucher himself--drew back, faltered away, scowled,

and finally went off, muttering curses on the master, who stood

in his unchanging attitude, looking after their retreat with

defiant eyes. The moment that retreat had changed into a flight

(as it was sure from its very character to do), he darted up the

steps to Margaret. She tried to rise without his help.

'It is nothing,' she said, with a sickly smile. 'The skin is

grazed, and I was stunned at the moment. Oh, I am so thankful

they are gone!' And she cried without restraint.

He could not sympathise with her. His anger had not abated; it

was rather rising the more as his sense of immediate danger was

passing away. The distant clank of the soldiers was heard just

five minutes too late to make this vanished mob feel the power of

authority and order. He hoped they would see the troops, and be

quelled by the thought of their narrow escape. While these

thoughts crossed his mind, Margaret clung to the doorpost to

steady herself: but a film came over her eyes--he was only just

in time to catch her. 'Mother--mother!' cried he; 'Come

down--they are gone, and Miss Hale is hurt!' He bore her into the

dining-room, and laid her on the sofa there; laid her down

softly, and looking on her pure white face, the sense of what she

was to him came upon him so keenly that he spoke it out in his

pain: 'Oh, my Margaret--my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to

me! Dead--cold as you lie there, you are the only woman I ever

loved! Oh, Margaret--Margaret!' Inarticulately as he spoke,

kneeling by her, and rather moaning than saying the words, he

started up, ashamed of himself, as his mother came in. She saw

nothing, but her son a little paler, a little sterner than usual.




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