Wetherell had that moment opened the door of his private room, of which the window looked to the back. His face betrayed his surprise on finding twenty or thirty persons huddled in disorder at the head of the stairs. The two lights which had survived the flight from the drawing-room flared in the draught of the shattered windows, and the wavering illumination gave a sinister cast to the scene. The dull rattle of stones on the floor of the rooms exposed to the Square—varied at times by a roar of voices or a rush of feet in the hall below—suggested that the danger was near at hand, and that the assailants might at any moment break into the building. Nevertheless Sir Charles showed no signs of fear. After letting his eyes travel over the group, “How long is this going on, Mr. Under-Sheriff?” he asked, plunging his hands deep in his breeches pockets. “Well, Sir Charles——” “They seem,” with a touch of sternness, “to be carrying the jest rather too far.” “Mr. Cooke,” the Mayor said, “wishes me to call out the military.” Wetherell shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “The occasion is not so serious as to justify that. You cannot say that life is in danger?” The Under-Sheriff put himself forward. “I can say, sir,” he answered firmly, “that yours is in danger. And in serious danger!” Wetherell planted his feet further apart, and thrust his hands lower into his pockets. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “It is yes, yes, sir,” the Under-Sheriff replied bluntly. “Unless you leave the house I cannot be responsible! I cannot, indeed, Sir Charles.” “But——” “Listen, sir! If you don’t wish a very terrible catastrophe to happen, you must go! By G—d you must!” the Under-Sheriff repeated, forgetting his manners. The noise below had swollen suddenly. Cries, blows, and shrieks rose up the staircase, and announced that at any moment the party above might have to defend their lives. At the prospect suddenly presented, respect for dignities took flight; panic seized the majority. Constables, thrusting aldermen and magistrates aside, raced up the stairs, and bundled down again laden with beds with which to block the windows: while the picked men who had hitherto guarded the foot of the staircase left their posts in charge of two or three of the wounded, who groaned dismally. Apparently the mob had broken into part of the ground floor, and were with difficulty held at bay. One of the party struck his hand on the balusters—it was Mr. Cooke. “By Heavens!” he said, “this is what comes of your d——d Reform! Your d——d Reform! We shall all be murdered, every man of us! Murdered!” “For God’s sake, Mr. Mayor,” cried a quavering voice, “send for the military.” “Ay, ay! the soldiers. Send for the soldiers, sir!” echoed two or three. “Certainly I will,” said the Mayor, who was cooler than most. “Who will go?”