Then she was aware that from the back of the concourse some men were pushing their way toward her. She struggled against the efforts of Mary Ellen’s captors to go on and would not release her hold of the one next her, thinking that here might be deliverance, or, at least, help. As they came nearer she saw that one was in Quaker garb, and her hopes rose. In the matter of a runaway slave there was no doubting on which side would be the active sympathy and assistance of a Friend. In response to his inquiry she told him her own and her father’s name. “Yes, yes,” he said heartily, “I’ve heard of Dr. Ware.” He glanced at Mary Ellen, dumb and patient between her captors, then back at Rhoda, and understanding flashed between their eyes. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Thee’ll soon find friends here, who’ll do their best to bring things out all right for thee and for her too.” They moved on, the mob around them rapidly increasing. By the looks of the men and the remarks which reached her ears she knew that it was, for the most part, pro-slavery in feeling. The Quaker was walking beside her, but his companions had disappeared. Presently he whispered: “The marshal will be here soon. Perhaps thee could slip away and hide. There’ll be help if thee wants to try it.” Rhoda shook her head and whispered back: “No, no. I mustn’t leave her.” In a whisper so low it barely reached her ears she heard him say: “Never mind her. She’ll be looked after.” But before Rhoda could reply three men, pushing their way authoritatively, were beside them, and a moment later she found herself under arrest and being marched along between the marshal’s two assistants. Soon she saw that a change was taking place in the character of the crowd. Its numbers were being rapidly augmented, but most of those who were joining it now were silent, and Rhoda guessed by their looks and by the glint of an eye here and there that they were moved by a determined purpose. The marshal surveyed them anxiously, spoke to his aids, and they, with Rhoda between them, held back, then edged their way into a cross street and let the throng surge on past them. Then they rushed her along until they came to a two-story brick building, where they gave her into the charge of another official, who locked her into an upstairs room. Through the barred windows she could see the mob, now at a standstill half a block down the street, eddying round the center where stood Mary Ellen between her two captors, a drooping figure of despair and resignation. On the outskirts and apparently merely looking on was the Quaker, who had told her his name was Daniel Benedict. And still farther away her eye caught sight of a familiar form, old and shabby, topped by a bell-crowned hat, standing beside a dingy peddler’s wagon and watching the proceedings with an interest which broke out now and then in shrill calls and shuffling capers.