The band had begun again. It was coming nearer. Philip! Philip! He was her only refuge now. All else was a blank. The side-door had been little used. Its hinges and bolt were rusty and stiff. She broke her nails in opening it. From the other side came the light jingle of a curb chain, and over the wall hovered a white sheet of smoking light. The carriage was in the lane, and the driver--Philip's servant, Jem-y-Lord--stood with the door open. Kate stumbled on the step and fell into the seat. The door was closed. Then a new thought smote her. It was about the child, about Philip, about Pete. In leaving the little one behind her, though she had meant it so unselfishly, she had done the one thing that must be big with consequences. It would bring its penalty, its punishment, its retribution. Stop! She would go back even yet. Her face was against the glass; she was struggling with the strap. But the carriage was moving. She heard the rumble of the wheels; it was like a deafening reverberation from the day of doom. Then her senses dwaled away and the carriage drove on. XV. Outside Ballure House there was a crowd which covered the garden, the fence, the high-road, and the top of the stone wall opposite. The band had ceased to play, and the people were shouting, clapping hands, and cheering. At the door--which was open--Philip stood bareheaded, and a shaft of the light in the house behind him lit up a hundred of the eager faces gathered in the darkness. He raised his hand for silence, but it was long before he was allowed to speak. Salutations rugged, rough--almost rude--but hearty to the point of homeliness, and affectionate to the length of familiarity, flew at his head from every side. “Good luck to you, boy!”--“Bravo for Ramsey!”--“The Christians for your life!”--“A chip of the ould block--Dempster Christian the Sixth!”--“Hush, man, he's spaking!”--“Go it, Phil!”--“Give it fits, boy!”--“Hush! hush!”