"Indirectly, not intentionally quite, as we always thought. Piers, I should like to go to the Infirmary, and take Susan with me. Will you help us, and come with us?" "You may get into another scrimmage, Joyce; is it right?" "I think it is right," Joyce said, gently; "I asked God about it, you know." Here was Joyce's sense of strength in weakness; she had always a refuge and a Councillor at hand. Her religion was not one of many words; it was emphatically the religion of Peace--and in quietness and confidence she could rest. "It seems to me, Piers, as if it would be cruel to deny a dying man this last act of grace." "He does not deserve it." "Ah! Piers, what do we deserve of God?" "Well," he said, "I will go with you if I can get a hackney-coach; a lame fellow like me can't very well trudge down there on foot. But as you do everything to please other people, it is only fair I should try to please you." "I don't wish to tell mother yet, but I will go and call Susan, dear, good Susan, and tell her to get ready." "I hope she won't make a scene," Piers said, "I hate scenes, and I don't see what good you will do, but here goes;" and Piers took his hat and went to do his sister's bidding. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVI. "FIRE SEVEN TIMES HEATED." Taking a circuitous route by Granby Hill, where two little urchins were waiting to scotch the wheels, the lumbering coach, of much larger proportions than the modern fly, reached the gate of the Infirmary before ten o'clock. The coachman was very much excited by the events of the previous day, and was rather glad to have the opportunity of taking back to Clifton reliable information as to the state of the city. He skirted the suburbs of Bedminster, and was somewhat proud of his achievement. Joyce left Piers in the coach, and, taking Susan's arm she went into the large, gloomy entrance of the building. Here people were standing in groups; some crying, some talking in angry tones, and the surgeons and attendants all passing to and fro, as news of those who had been wounded was hastily given to their friends. As Joyce stood waiting to see the surgeon of the ward where Bob Priday lay, a man came rushing in. "The mob are in the Mansion House," he said; "they are throwing out the furniture; it is worse than ever." "Where are the authorities?" asked one of the surgeons, who had a roll of bandages in his hand. "Rushing away, for their lives, like cats on the roofs of the houses. They are hunting for Colonel Brereton, and calling upon all the people in College Green to come to the aid of the magistrates in the King's name." "And the magistrates climbing over the roofs of the houses; dear, dear!" said the old surgeon. "Pray, madam," he said, turning to Joyce, "is there anything I can do for you?" "Yes," Joyce said; "this young woman's father is dying in one of the wards." "What ward? what ward? We are all so busy."