The door had been bolted and chained by the housekeeper, but Zita, hearing what Mark said, without waiting for orders, descended to the ground floor, and unbarred the door, and admitted him. He ran upstairs, for no time was to be lost. The mob was restless and irritated. It was impatient to be on its way to Ely, and yet was reluctant to leave Prickwillow without having drawn money from it, or done some mischief. Drownlands was too angry to listen to advice. He would not hear of coming to terms with the rabble. He had been too long accustomed to domineer over the labourers to fear them now. He in no way realised how much courage is given by association in numbers. 'What are you here for? How dare you enter uninvited?' he exclaimed, as Mark came into the office, followed by Zita. 'I admitted him,' said the girl. 'He has come in your interest.' 'He is one of the rioters! He is a leader! A Runham of Crumbland, with a tail of dirty scoundrels after him, burning, pillaging, and getting drunk.' 'I beseech you,' said Mark—'I entreat you to listen to reason. The men are, as you say, drunk—drunk with folly. I am no leader.' 'You are acting for them.' 'I am an intermediary. They have spared me. They came to Crumbland, but we humoured them, brought out cake and ale, and they went their way without molestation. Gaultrip resisted, and they set fire to a stack, and so frightened him that he yielded, and paid fifteen pounds. Now he is engaged in saving his other stacks. Do not provoke these fellows further.' 'I will not listen to you. You ought to be ashamed to take the part of these scurvy ragamuffins.' 'I am not taking their part, but yours. Hark!' There was a cry from the yard of, 'Drownlands! Tiger Ki! We will break in the house door unless you give us money.' Then a brick was thrown. It crashed through the double panes of the window with raised sash, and fell in the room, accompanied by a shower of glass splinters. 'I will shoot one of them!' exclaimed the yeoman, and he ran with his gun to the window. Mark had just time to strike up the barrel, and the contents were discharged in the air, hurting nobody. Drownlands turned on him with an oath. 'I will punish you,' he said, stamping with fury, and he rushed upon Mark with his gun raised over his head, grasping it by the barrel. Then Zita sprang between them, holding the flail in both her hands, as a ward against the stock. 'Stand back, Mark!' she cried. 'He dare not touch you across this flail.' It was as she said. The man stood as one paralysed, the uplifted gun in his hands, his eyes glaring at young Runham, and the red reflections of the fire flashing on his face and turning it to blood. But the blow did not fall. His muscles remained immovable, the gun suspended in the air, till Zita lowered the flail, and put it behind her back. Then the spell was off him. He let the gun fall on the ground, and his head sank on his bosom.