“Very good,” Vaughan said, and without delay he followed the messenger to the room he had named. Here, with the relics of the fray about them, he found the Mayor and four or five officials who looked woefully shaken and flustered. With them were Brereton and the Honourable Bob, both in uniform. The stone-throwing had ceased, for the front of the house was now guarded by a double line of troopers in red cloaks. Lights, too, had been brought, and in the main the danger seemed to be over. But about this council there was none of that lightheartedness, none of that easy contempt which had characterised the one held in the same room an hour or two before. The lesson had been learnt in a measure. The Mayor looked at Vaughan as he entered. “Is this the gentleman?” he asked. “Yes, that is the gentleman who got us together at the head of the stairs,” a person, a stranger to Vaughan, answered. “If he,” the man continued, “were put in charge of the constables, who are at present at sixes and sevens, we might manage something.” A voice in the background mentioned that it was Mr. Vaughan, the Member for Chippinge. “I shall be glad to do anything I can,” Vaughan said. “In support of the military,” the tall, thin Town-clerk interposed, in a decided tone. “That must be understood. Eh, Mr. Burges?” “Certainly,” the City Solicitor answered. And they both looked at Colonel Brereton, who, somewhat to Vaughan’s surprise, had not acknowledged his presence. “Of course, of course,” said the Mayor pacifically. “That is understood. I am quite sure that Colonel Brereton will use his utmost force to clear the streets and quiet the city.” “I shall do what I think right,” Brereton replied, standing up straight, with his hand on his sword-hilt, and looking, among the disordered citizens, like a Spanish hidalgo among a troop of peasants. “I shall do what is right,” he repeated stubbornly; and Vaughan, knowing the man well, perceived that, quiet as he seemed, he was labouring under strong excitement. “I shall walk my horses about. The crowd are perfectly good-humoured, and only need to be kept moving.” The Town-clerk exchanged a glance with a neighbour. “But do you think, sir,” he said, “that that will be sufficient? You are aware, I suppose, that great damage has been done already, and that had your troop not arrived when it did many lives might have been sacrificed?” “That is all I shall do,” Brereton answered. “Unless,” with a faint ring of contempt in his tone, “the Mayor gives me an express and written order to attack the people.” The Mayor’s face was a picture. “I?” he gasped. “Yes, sir.” “But I—I could not take that responsibility on myself,” the Mayor cried. “I couldn’t, I really couldn’t!” he repeated, taken aback by the burden it was proposed to put on him. “I can’t judge, Colonel Brereton—I am not a military man—whether it is necessary or not.” “I should consider it unwise,” Brereton replied formally.