But the rioters took that view also, and the alarm. And they streamed out panic-stricken. When the soldiers rode in, Brereton at their head, not more than twenty or thirty remained in the Precincts. And on that followed the most remarkable of all the scenes that disgraced Bristol that night; the scene which beyond others convinced many of the complicity of the troops, if not of the Government, in the outrage. Not a man could leave the Palace except with the troops’ good-will. Yet they let the rascals pass. In vain a handful of constables—who had arrived on the heels of the military—exerted themselves to seize the worst offenders, and such as passed with plunder in their hands. The soldiers discouraged the attempt, and even beat back the constables. “Let them go! Let them go!” was the cry. And the nimbleness of the scamps in effecting their escape was greeted with laughter and applause. Vaughan and the companion whom fate had so strangely joined saw it with indignation. But Vaughan had made up his mind that he would not approach Brereton again; and he controlled himself, until a blackguard bolting from the Palace with his arms full of spoil was seized, close to him, by an elderly man, who seemed to be one of the Bishop’s servants. The two wrestled fiercely, the servant calling for help, the soldiers looking on and laughing. A moment and the two fell to the ground, the servant undermost. He uttered a cry of pain. That was too much for Vaughan. He sprang forward, dragged the ruffian from his prey, and with his other hand he drew his staff. He was about to strike his prisoner—for the man continued to struggle desperately—when a voice above them shouted “Put that up! Put that up!” And a trooper urged his horse almost on the top of them, at the same time threatening him with his naked sword. Vaughan lost his temper at that. “You blackguard!” he cried. “Stand back. The man is my prisoner!” For answer the soldier struck at him. Fortunately the blade was turned by his hat and only the flat alighted on his head. But the man, drunk or reckless, repeated the blow, and this time would certainly have cut him down if Sir Robert, with a quickness beyond his years, had not turned aside the stroke with his walking-cane. At the same time “Are you mad?” he shouted peremptorily. “Where is your Colonel?” The tone, rather than the words, sobered the trooper. He swore sulkily, reined in his horse, and moved back to his fellows. Sir Robert turned to Vaughan, who, dazed by the blow, was leaning against the porch of the house. “I hope you are not wounded?” he said. “It’s thanks to you, sir, he’s not killed!” the man whom Vaughan had rescued, replied; and he hung about him solicitously. “He’d have cut him to the chin! Ay, to the chin he would!” with quavering gusto. Vaughan was regaining his coolness. He tried to smile. “I hardly saw—what happened,” he said. “I am only sure I am not hurt. Just—a rap on the head!”