He turned to mount the step, flushed and breathing fast and with high-beating pulses, when suddenly he stopped. Before the iron gate a carriage had stopped. A servant in livery got down and opened the door, and Rachel Ffrench stepped out. The hands checked their shouting to look at her. She came up the yard slowly and with the setting sun shining upon her. It was natural that they should gaze at her as she approached, though she did not look at any of them--only at Haworth, who waited. They made a pathway for her and she passed through it and went up the step. Her rich dress touched more than one man as she swept by. "I thought," they heard her say, "that I would call for my father." Then for the first time she looked at the men. She turned at the top of the step and looked down--the sun on her dress and face. There was not a man among them who did not feel the look. At first a murmur arose and then an incoherent cry and then a shout, and they threw up their caps and shouted until they were hoarse. In the midst of it she turned aside and went in with a smile on her lips. In Haworth's room they found her father standing behind the door with a startled air. "What are they shouting for?" he asked. "What is the matter now?" "I think _I_ am the matter," Miss Ffrench answered, "though I scarcely know why. Ah," giving him a quiet glance, "you are afraid!" CHAPTER XXIX. "SARARANN." The next morning there was an uproar in the town. The strikers from Molton and Marfort no longer remained in the shade. They presented themselves openly to the community in their true characters. At first they lounged about in groups at the corners and before the ale-houses, smoking, talking, gesticulating, or wearing sullen faces. But this negative state of affairs did not last long. By eight o'clock the discovery was made that something had happened in the night. In a score of prominent places,--on walls and posts,--there appeared papers upon which was written, in a large, bold hand, the following announcement: "Haworth's lads will stand by him. The chaps that have aught to say against this, let them remember that to every man there's six barrels well loaded, and to Jem Haworth twelve. Those that want their brass out of Broxton Bank, let them come and get it. "Writ and signed by "JEM HAWORTH." The first man who saw it swore aloud and ran to call others. Soon a select party stood before the place on which the card was posted, confronting it in different moods. Some were scientifically profane, some raged loudly, some were silent, one or two grinned. "He staid up aw neet to do that theer," remarked one of these. "He's getten a gizzard o' his own, has Haworth. He's done it wi' his own hands."