At the moment we reached our own door, a better aimed missile than the others struck the man in black on the head and knocked him down. It seemed as if the whole group would be trampled into dust by the multitude that came pouring on like a drove of wild cattle; but help was at hand. Mr. Cheriton sprang forward and, placing himself between the woman and the mob, with one flourish of his big stick, as it seemed, he laid low two of his opponents, and cleared a ring round him. At the same moment, a mutual recognition took place between Mrs. Thorpe and the young officer. "Dick Thorpe, is this you?" "Aunt Thorpe, for Heaven's sake, open the door and take this poor distressed woman into your house. These beggarly long-shore cowards have all but killed her." And he added a string of hard words which I will not set down here. Swearing, which is now going out of fashion among gentlefolks, was as common as breathing at that time. Mrs. Thorpe was not the woman to disregard such an appeal. She flung open the private door of the shop. The poor man had picked himself up by this time, and, with the help of young Mr. Thorpe, carried the woman into Mrs. Thorpe's private parlor. Meantime, Mr. Cheriton was addressing the mob. He Informed them in energetic language, level to the lowest understanding among them, that they were a set of cowards and sneaks, unworthy of the name of Englishmen; that they deserved kicking—not to say hanging—and it was a wonder if they did not get their deserts. He would like to see the first man who would dare attack the house whose mistress had taken in the poor creature. As he spoke, he twirled his stick, and looked round him as though he would enjoy breaking two or three more heads. The viler part of the mob began to slink away by that time, and the better sort to look rather shamefaced. "But these be the Methodees, parson," one ventured to say. "They be in league with the Papists and the Pretender," said another. "Rubbish!" returned the rector. "They are harmless people. Who has been telling you such a pack of lies?" "His lordship says so," returned the first speaker, looking at Lord Bulmer, who kept his ground, though the other gentleman had drawn off. "Then his lordship might be in better business," retorted Mr. Cheriton. "You are well set to work, my lord, hounding on these men to such a villainous, cowardly persecution of a few harmless enthusiasts." "Mr. Cheriton, your cloth protects you," said Lord Bulmer, turning very red. "If it did not—" "If it did not, I should be safe enough, I dare say," returned Mr. Cheriton, in a tone of the most stinging contempt. "The valor which exerts itself against poor Methodist preachers and helpless women is not likely to be very dangerous to any thing of its own size. Go home, my men, go home, and thank Heaven that you have been saved from the doing of a horrible cowardly crime." The crowd had much thinned by this time, and the few men who remained looked sheepish enough.