The officer is no stranger to the crowd. Flora Desmond’s features are well known to it. Is she not the leader of Hector D’Estrange’s especial regiment, a regiment entirely drawn from the women of “the people”? Whatever may be the feeling of the middle class and a portion of that one which claims to rank above it, in regard to Hector D’Estrange, one thing is certain, that amidst the poor and the needy, amidst the suffering and the struggling, that name is a talisman to conjure by. She comes down the steps hurriedly, and mounts her horse in haste. The crowd sways and presses towards her in spite of the efforts of large numbers of police to repress them. “The verdict?” they shout inquiringly. “Tell us the verdict!” She stands up in her stirrups and looks at that sea of faces. Enemies there may be amongst them, hundreds, perhaps, antagonistic to Hector D’Estrange, but amidst the rough faces of the thousands that press around her, she knows that the majority are true as steel. “Guilty!” she calls out. “He is condemned to die! I mistake the people, however, if they will believe the verdict or acquiesce in the sentence. Say you, whom he loves, whose hard lot he has struggled to raise, will you permit it?” “Never!” comes the fierce shout from hundreds, nay, thousands of throats. “Hector D’Estrange shall not die!” “I knew it,” she replies proudly. “Justice shall be upheld. I knew the people would be true to him, men as well as women. He shall not die!” They cheer and cheer again as she makes her way through the crowd followed by her orderly. It gives room to her willingly, and opens a passage for her horse. She rides along rapidly in the direction of a quiet side street, well away from the thronging crowd of people. Even as she does so the rumbling wheels of the prison-van strike on her ear. She can see it approaching, surrounded by a strong force of police, and as she does so, she urges on her horse. Flora Desmond passes rapidly along the quiet, deserted street, until she nearly reaches the end, and then turns her horse down a narrow alley leading therefrom. This brings her into a wide, spacious yard, around which a big square building is built, in the centre of which is a large archway with strong iron gates, guarded by two mounted sentries. They salute her as she rides up, and the iron gates are unlocked at once. She rides through them, and enters what appears to be an immense riding-school, in which are drawn up a hundred troopers of the White Regiment. Her eye scans them keenly and rapidly. They are in perfect order, and look fit for any work. Every face is turned towards her. “Hector D’Estrange has been declared guilty,” she says in a clear, distinct voice, “and is condemned to die! I am here to lead you to his rescue. If any one is to die, it shall be we who will do so, not him. Follow me, guards. There is not a moment to be lost.”