“Here, again, you bring an accusation as unfounded as it is absurd, against an honourable man and a Crown official. If you had been able to produce a particle of evidence against my father, a particle of evidence to show that what you imagine is not as hollow as a dream, the coroner would have hearkened and acted. Are you aware that this bandying of accusations is an indictable offence? My father has not hurt you in any way.” This elicited a chorus of cries. “He has spoiled my shoeing.” “He has prevented the making of the road.” “My wife will never have blanc-mange again.” And Samuel Ceely, now arrived on the scene, in whispering voice added, “All my beautiful darlings—twelve of them, as healthy as apples, and took their vaccination well—all gone down the Cleave.” It really seemed as if the happiness, the hopes, the prosperity of all Orleigh, had gone over the edge of the cliff with his lordship. “I repeat it,” exclaimed the young man, waxing warm; “I repeat it, my father never did you an injury. You are now charging him with hurting you, because you suffer through his lordship’s death, and you are eager to find some one on whom to cast blame. As for any real sorrow and sympathy, you have none; wrapped up in your petty and selfish ends.” A voice: “Fax is fax—he did kill Lord Lamerton.” The tailor: “Human nature is human nature, and nobody can deny he prophesied my lord’s death.” “I dare you to charge my father with the crime,” cried young Saltren. “I warn you. I have laid by a little money, and I will spend it in prosecuting the man who does.” “We all do. Prosecute the parish,” rose in a general shout. “My father is incapable of the crime.” “We have no quarrel with you, young Jingles,” roared a miner. “Our contention is with the captain. Mates, what do y’ say? Shall we pay him a visit?” “Aye—aye!” from all sides. “Let us show him our minds.” A boisterous voice exclaimed: “We’ll serve him out for taking the bread out of our mouths. We’ll tumble his house about his ears. He sha’n’t stand in our light any more.” And another called, “If you want to prosecute us, we’ll provide you with occasion.” Then a stone was flung, which struck Jingles on the head and knocked him down. For a few minutes the young man was unconscious, or rather confused, he never quite lost his senses. The women clustered about him, and Mrs. Tregose threw water in his face. He speedily gathered his faculties together, and stood up, rather angry than hurt, to see that nearly all the men had departed. The act of violence, instead of quelling the excitement, had stirred it to greater heat; and the body of the men, the miners, labourers, the blacksmith, tailor, and shoemaker, their sons and apprentices, went off in a shouting gesticulating rabble in the direction of the Cleave, not of Chillacot, but of the down overhanging it.