It reached in due course the corner of the road, where the sunlight was golden between the trees on the left, and golden radiance and vivid shadows of trees fell in light and darkness upon the Manor wall. And now, down below, could be seen the distant country, bright and dim like some beautiful fairyland, and the long soft shadows upon the field of grass, and on the other side the Squire’s house, grey among the trees. They went down the steep road, shouting, clashing, hooting, the evening stillness rebuking them as they went, and reached the bottom of the hill without any interruption, and turned forthwith into the lower village street. Men and women stood at their gates to see them pass, the mothers holding their babies in their arms; and little children, too young to join in the tumult, babbled at them with great excitement and delight. There were none who objected to the discordant interruption that might have been heard for miles around; the sympathy of the villagers went with it, and no one would have ventured to attempt to interfere. This was partly due to a primitive sense of justice, and partly because Rob Salter had the unpopularity he deserved, but partly also to a sort of pleasure in the excitement, which in the quiet village made a kind of festival. The procession clashed onwards, gathering numbers as it went, and turned down by the public-house to Rob Salter’s home. So quiet and still! the cottage stood in the shadows, with the evening light upon the gate and field beyond, with bolted door, and with blinds closely drawn--there was no sign of any drunken outbreaks here. But here, as at a resting-place, the procession halted, and gathered together all its strength, and rattled, hooted, groaned, shouted, and clashed, until its hideous clamour might be said to surpass itself. There was no answer, no sign that they were heard, the two women cowered together in their home; and after some five minutes of serenading had elapsed, the procession turned round, and went on its way again. It went along the road to the Fens as if it would get out into the country; and then, once more turning, proceeded up the hill, this time by more devious ways to the left of the village, with fields on one side of it, and the glowing Fens below. To the right, below a wall, there was a deserted stone-pit, all covered and shrouded with ivy and trees, and beneath that wall crouched an unseen auditor, a young lad who lay and listened, but who dared not raise his head. The procession of men would have known him if he had shown his face; he was Nat Salter, who was Rob Salter’s son.