A storm of remonstrances, oaths, cries, broke forth. Throw down four stacks o’ nicely-settled hay! Couldn’t they do their rummaging wi’out ruining folk? Who was to set ’em up again? And did they think to take Big Monjoy when all was done?--They were tingling for quarrel; the stacks would serve as well for a pretext as anything else; the disturbing of a sitting hen would have served; and the mob swayed like a flood. A Back o’ th’ Mooiner had a cudgel; it crossed a bayonet suddenly; there was a rush, and a breach appeared in the red-coated line; and fifty men poured through it, taking the other rank in the backs. The yard was a confusion of struggling men, with a redcoat or a bayonet isolated here and there. The officer had sprung half-way up the ladder, his back to a stack; he called a cracking order. Down the rank of men in the road three rhythmic movements passed like a wave, and there was a sharp clicking of musket-locks. The tumult changed to a frantic backward pressure--they fell back behind the stacks, against walls, anywhere from the row of levelled muskets. The officer up the ladder called more orders, and those who had formed the lane drew up at right-angles to the others, enclosing two sides of the yard. “Throw the ricks down,” said the officer; and the ropes of the poles were cut, the heavy roofs hove down into the yard, and the demolition begun. A couple of hundred soldiers had followed Cope’s chaise to Horwick; down the Fullergate that morning there marched from Ford Town thrice that number. At their head rode the Captain Ritchie of whom Horwick had heard. They formed in the market-place, and the captain cantered to Cope’s house, and flung himself from his horse. The two men were closeted for half an hour, and then the captain came out again. He returned to the market-place; and as he gave the order to stack arms he saw a fair-haired woman making great haste beyond the Piece Hall. Cicely had done the six miles to Wadsworth and back in less than two hours. She found Matthew Moon striding up and down his dining-room with his watch in his hand. He had flung the door open and cried, “Well?” hearing the brushing of her skirts in the passage. “I’ve been--let me sit down----” she panted. “Where have ye found?” “Oh, I saw all manner o’ folk; I went----” Matthew Moon stamped angrily. “Where have ye found?” “Oh!... the parson’s....” He was surprised; but, “When?” he demanded. “Yes--yes--anytime----” Already the merchant had sprung towards the door and disappeared. Presently he returned, mopping his brow, and sat down opposite Cicely. He gave a long “Ah!” of relief. “Ye see, Cicely,” he explained more quietly, “they’ve been at Webster’s two hours and more now--they must be doing it thoroughly. Now ye can tell me about it.” “Oh, first--where is he?” “Never mind. Nowhere near the stackyard. Tell me about the parson.”