Mary's pale cheek flushed, and she looked as if she would like to say more, but as we all rose from the table at that moment to return thanks she had no opportunity. My own curiosity was greatly roused by what I had heard of these strange people, and I made up my mind that I would question Mary, and find out more of what her aunt had told her. We always went out for a walk on Sunday afternoon, and not uncommonly a friend or two of Mrs. Thorpe's would drop in for a cup of tea, a chat, and a game or two at cards or backgammon, followed by a little supper. Mrs. Thorpe, I am sure, saw no harm in these things, or she would never have done them, for she was not one to go against her conscience in anything. At the same time, she was greatly shocked and distressed at finding Amabel and me working at our embroidery frames one Sunday afternoon. She exacted from us a promise that we would never do so again, and told us a tragical tale, of a maid of honor of Queen Elizabeth's who had died from pricking her finger with a needle while sewing on Sunday, adding that she knew the story was true, for she had seen a wax-work image of this wicked young lady when she was in London, with the blood running down her finger as natural as life. I don't think we were as much impressed with this tale as Mrs. Thorpe intended. Being a maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth, we thought the judgment might have come upon her for that reason, and not because she sewed on Sunday, for we had been taught to regard good Queen Bess as the personation of all that was evil in women. But I am getting a long way from that memorable Sunday. We had been out for a walk, as I have said. St. Anne's Church stood on the corner of the street down which we returned, and we had just drawn near to it when we heard the noise of many hoarse voices, which at once reminded me of the noises which had so terrified me in Toulon, and of the voices of the robbers as we heard them while concealed in the great cavern at St. Jean. "What can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe. "Let us hurry home, young ladies." At that moment, Mr. Cheriton came out of his house and joined us, saying that he would see us to the door, as there seemed some disturbance in the street. We turned round the corner of the church and at once found ourselves face to face with the danger. A riotous mob of persons—wharfmen, soldiers, and women of the lowest sort—were pouring up the street in which we lived. Just before them two men—one a plain man in decent black, the other apparently an officer of some sort—were supporting between them the form of a fainting woman, and trying to shield her from the blows that were aimed and the missiles that were thrown by the rioters. Three or four gentlemen on horseback mingled with the crowd, and were evidently setting them on. In one of them, I recognized Lord Bulmer, whom I had seen at Lady Throckmorton's.