Boucher,—with starving children at home
—relying on ultimate success in their efforts
to get higher wages, and enraged beyond
ure at discovering that Irishmen were to
bo brought in to rob their little ones of bread.
Margaret knew it all; she read it in
Boucher's face, forlornly desperate, and livid with
rage. If Mr. Thornton would but say
something to them—let them hear his voice only.
—it seemed as if it would be better than this
wild beating and raging against the stony
silence that vouchsafed them no word, even
of anger or reproach. But perhaps he was
speaking now; there was a momentary hush
of their noise, inarticulate as that of a troop
of animals. She tore her bonnet off; and
bent forwards to hear. She could only see;
for if Mr. Thornton had indeed made the
attempt to speak, the momentary instinct to
listen to him was past and gone, and the
people were raging worse than ever. He
stood with his arms folded; still as a statue;
his face pale with repressed excitement.
They were trying to intimidate him—to
make him flinch; each was urging the other
on to some immediate act of personal
violence. Margaret felt intuitively that in an
instant all would be uproar; the first touch
would cause an explosion, in which, among
such hundreds of infuriated men and reckless
boys, even Mr. Thornton's life would be
unsafe,—that in another instant the stormy
passions would have passed their bounds, and
swept away all barriers of reason, or
apprehension of consequence. Even while she
looked, she saw lads in the back-ground
stooping to take off their heavy wooden clogs—
the readiest missile they could find; she saw it
was the spark to the gunpowder, and, with
a cry, which no one heard, she rushed out of
the room, down stairs,—she had lifted the
great iron bar of the door with an imperious
force—had thrown the door open wide—and
was there, in face of that angry sea of men,
her eyes smiting them with flaming arrows
of reproach. The clogs were arrested in the
hands that held them—the countenances, so
fell not a moment before, now looked irresolute,
and as if asking what this meant. For she
stood between them and their enemy. She
could not speak, but held out her arms
towards them till she could recover breath.

"Oh, do not use violence! He is one man,
and you are many;" but her words died
away, for there was no tone in her voice; it
was but a hoarse whisper. Mr. Thornton
stood a little on one side; he had moved away
from behind her, as if jealous of anything that
should come between him and danger.

"Go!" said she, once more (and now her
voice was like a cry). "The soldiers are
sent for—are coming. Go peaceably. Go
away. You shall have relief from your
complaints, whatever they are."

"Shall them Irish blackguards be packed
back again? " asked one from out the crowd,
with fierce threatening in his voice.

"Never for your bidding!" exclaimed Mr.
Thornton. And instantly the storm broke.
The hootings rose and filled the air,—but
Margaret did not hear them. Her eye was
on the group of lads who had armed
themselves with their clogs some time before. She
saw their gesture—she knew its meaning,—
she read their aim. Another moment, and
Mr. Thornton might be smitten down,—he
whom she had urged and goaded to come to
this perilous place. She only thought how she
could save him. She threw her arms around
him; she made her body into a shield from
the fierce people beyond. Still, with his arms
folded, he shook her off.

"Go away," said he, in his deep voice.
"This is no place for you."

"It is!" said she. "You did not see
what I saw." If she thought her sex would
be a protection,—if, with shrinking eyes she
had turned away from the terrible anger of
these men, in any hope that ere she looked
again they would have paused and reflected,
and slunk away, and vanished,—she was
wrong. Their reckless passion had carried
them too far to stop—at least had carried some
of them too far; for it is always the savage
lads, with their love of cruel excitement,
who head the riot—reckless to what bloodshed
it may lead. A clog whizzed through
the air. Margaret's fascinated eyes watched
its progress; it missed its aim, and she
turned sick with affright, but changed not
her position, only hid her face on Mr. Thornton's
arm. Then she turned and spoke
again:

"For God's sake! do not damage your
cause by this violence. You do not know
what you are doing." She strove to make
her words distinct.

A sharp pebble flew by her, grazing forehead
and cheek, and drawing a blinding sheet
of light before her eyes. She lay like one
dead on Mr. Thornton's shoulder. Then lie
unfolded his arms, and held her encircled in
one for an instant:

"You do well!" said he. "You come to
oust the innocent stranger. You fall—you
hundreds—on one man; and when a woman
comes before you to ask you for your own
sakes to be reasonable creatures, your
cowardly wrath falls upon her! You do
well!" They were silent while he spoke.
They were watching, open-eyed and
open-mouthed, the thread of dark-red blood which
wakened them up from their trance of
passion. Those nearest the gate stole out
ashamed; there was a movement through
all the crowd—a retreating movement. Only
one voice cried out:

"Th' stone were meant for thee; but thou
wert sheltered behind a woman!"

Mr. Thornton quivered with rage. The
blood-flowing had made Margaret conscious
—dimly, vaguely conscious. He placed her
gently on the door-step, her head leaning
against the frame.