The feeling of apprehension gave courage to some of the bolder. Two or three sprang upon Cowles from behind and broke him down. He fell, his revolver pulled from his hand. He looked up into faces that he knew. "Make a move and you'll get it," said a hoarse, croaking voice above him. "Shut up now and keep quiet, and keep to yourself what you seen. We're just having a little surprise party, that's all. We're only cleaning up this town." But now another figure came running--more than one. Judge Henderson himself had heard the tumult on the streets. It was he who first hurried up to the edge of the crowd. "Men!" he cried, holding up his hand. "What are you doing? Disperse, in the name of the law! I command it!" They had long been used to obeying the voice of Judge Henderson. He was their guide, their counselor, their leader. Some hesitated now. And then Judge Henderson pushed into the little group, looked over their heads, their shoulders--and saw what ruin had been wrought in Aurora Lane's little home. He saw Aurora standing there, outraged in every fiber, desecrated in her very soul, the ruins of her lost sanctuary lying all about her and on her face the last, last anguish of a woman who has said farewell to all, everything--life, happiness, peace, hope, and trust in God. Henderson cast his own hands to his face as he pushed back from that sight. He stood trembling and silent, unstrung by one swift, remorseless blow from his own soul, his own long sleeping conscience. Afar off, in the village, someone rang a bell--that at the engine house. Its summons of alarm called out every townsman not already in the streets. But before this time reaction had begun in the mob. Something about Judge Henderson--the sudden change in his attitude--the blanched terror, the awful horror which showed now in his face--seemed to bring reason to their own inflamed and muddled minds. And now, as they hesitated, they felt the impact of two other strong men who flung themselves against them, shouldered their way through, up to the side of the struggling sheriff. Those in the way looked into the barrels of two revolvers, one held in each hand of a tall man, a giant in his rugged strength, as those knew whom he jostled aside in his savage on-coming. "Hold on, men!" cried out the great voice of Horace Brooks. "I'll kill the first man that makes a move. Law or no law, I'll kill you if you move. What are you doing here?" At his side there was another, a young man--white-faced--a tall young man whom not all of them had seen before, whom not many recognized now in the sudden confusion as they swayed back, jostling one and another in the attempt to get away--the young man, the prisoner they had wanted and not found. The young man swung at one arm of Hod Brooks, tried to wrest from him one of the revolvers--sought to gain some weapon with which he might kill. But Hod Brooks kept him away.