When the mob had passed Guy seized her wrist and drew her on, and she went with him, mutely, as though the old Isoult were dead in her, the Isoult who could rule men with a flash of the eyes. She thought of Fulk on his white horse riding out proudly to face these boors, and she prayed fiercely that he might fool them. She was weary of this mob adventure; and, loathing these hinds with a great loathing, she believed once more in the pride of the sword, scorning the baser clay that stank of the potter’s hands. They reached the great court about the White Tower, and here Bedlam—a bloody Bedlam—had been let loose. The mob swarmed everywhere. They had driven a dozen of the King’s knights into a corner and were pulling their beards and spitting in their faces. Two hacked bodies lay close to the chapel entry, the bodies of two of John of Gaunt’s men who had been caught in his hated colours. From the windows of the White Tower came yells and curses. A man leant out, waving a red hand. “Taken—taken—bully Robert Hales!” The mob roared. “Bring him out! Throw him down!” A whirl of figures came down the outer steps with an old man in their midst. His fierce white beard stuck out under a grim mouth; the swineherds and scullions had not cowed him. They dragged him this way and that, like hounds pulling at a fox. “A horse-block! A horse-block!” One was found and rolled forward, and Sir Robert Hales thrown across it, face upwards, his hands clutching the air. Guy rushed forward, and jostled through. “My stroke, sirs. Room, room! I’ll do’t at one swash!” Isoult quailed, and turned away. The door of the White Tower stood open at the head of the steps down which the men of Kent had dragged Sir Robert Hales. The steps themselves were deserted for the moment, and Isoult climbed them and fled into the cool gloom of the great tower, trying to forget the sight of the old man flung face upwards across the horse-block. A desire to escape from these wretches seized her, and she fled along passages and up stairways, knowing not where she went, but seeking for some place where she might hide. Loud laughter and a pother of rough voices broke suddenly from a room at the top of a short flight of broad steps. Isoult heard the proud, but appealing voice of a woman and the laughter seemed to falter and die down. The door was half open, and Isoult, gliding along the wall, climbed the steps and peered through the gap at the hinges.