The dinner hour passed and they were still alone. Even Murdoch had not come. A dead silence reigned in the room. Ffrench was trying to read and not succeeding very well. Miss Ffrench stood by the window looking out. It was a clear night and the moon was at full; it was easy to see far up the road upon whose whiteness the trees cast black shadows. She was looking up this road toward the town. She had been watching it steadily for some time. Once her father had turned to her restlessly, saying: "Why do you stand there? You--you might be expecting something to happen." She did not make any reply and still retained her position. But about half an hour afterward, she turned suddenly and spoke in a low, clear tone. "If you are afraid, you had better go away," she said. "They are coming." It was evident that she at least felt no alarm, though there was a thrill of excitement in her voice. Mr. Ffrench sprang up from his seat. "They are coming!" he echoed. "Good God! What do you mean?" It was not necessary that she should enter into an explanation. A clamor of voices in the road told its own story. There were shouts and riotous cries which, in a moment more, were no longer outside the gates but within them. An uproarious crowd of men and boys poured into the garden, trampling the lawn and flower-beds beneath their feet as they rushed and stumbled over them. "Wheer is he?" they shouted. "Bring the chap out, an' let's tak' a look at him. Bring him out!" Ffrench moved toward the door of the room, and then, checked by some recollection, turned back again. "Good Heaven!" he said, "they are at their worst, and here we are utterly alone. Why did Haworth go away? Why----" His daughter interrupted him. "There is no use in your staying," she said. "It will do no good. You may go if you like. There is the back way. None of them are near it." "I--I can't leave you here," he stammered. "Haworth was mad! Why, in Heaven's name----" "There is no use asking why again," she replied. "I cannot tell you. I think you had better go." Her icy coldness would have been a pretty hard thing to bear if he had been less terror-stricken; but he saw that the hand with which she held the window-curtain was shaking. He did not know, however, that it was not shaking with fear, but with the power of the excitement which stirred her. It is scarcely possible that he would have left her, notwithstanding his panic, though, for a second, it nearly seemed that he had so far lost self-control as to be wavering; but as he stood, pale and breathless, there arose a fresh yell. "Wheer is he? Bring him out! Murdoch, th' 'Merican chap! We're coom to see him!" "What's that?" he asked. "Who is it they want?" "Murdoch! Murdoch!" was shouted again. "Let's ha' a word wi' Murdoch! We lads ha' summat to say to him!" "It is not I they want," he said. "It is Murdoch. It is not I at all!"