With a fierce growl the mob flung forward. Brenda cried out. It was as though her father himself were being attacked. With a bound she placed herself before the old man. "Leave him! Don't touch him!" she cried. "He's mad!" "I'm not mad," cried the man. "I protest against tyranny and the cursed greed that would destroy a nation. You crouch at the feet of those who will drain your blood--cowardly hounds all of you!" "'Ere! Let me get at 'im. Stand away, laidy!" "No, no, he is old and weak. Oh, Mr. van Zwieten, save him." Seeing an opportunity of posing as a hero at a small cost, the Dutchman placed the old man behind him, and stood between him and the mob which was closing in. "Leave him to me--I'll see to him!" "He's a furriner!" yelped a small man. "Hit his head!" "I'm a naturalized Englishman," shouted Van Zwieten, "but I won't let you touch this man!" "Woe--woe to the wicked Government who are about to dye their garments in the blood of a just people!" shrieked the old man, waving his arms wildly. Then Wilfred took hold of him and hurried him away. "Hold your tongue," he said roughly. "You'll get into trouble." "I will seal my protest with my blood!" "Stand back!" shouted Van Zwieten, opposing those who would have followed. "Hi, constable!" "Why, it's Van the cricketer," cried the big man, joyfully. "He's all right, boys. Seen 'im carry 'is bat out many a time, I 'ave." "Hooray for Van!" roared the fickle crowd, and as half-a-dozen policemen were pushing their way toward the centre of disturbance, it veered round to cheering Van Zwieten. "Spy! Spy! He's a spy!" shouted a voice that sounded to Brenda uncommonly like Wilfred's. The crowd growled again, and darted forward. But the police were now pushing right and left. Van Zwieten, who had changed color at the cry, stepped back and was swallowed up by the concourse of people. Wilfred had let the old man go, and the zealot was again raging, waving his crape scarf like a banner. Brenda, terrified at finding herself alone in the midst of the mob, kept close to the big Dutchman. Suddenly Wilfred, appearing, as it were, from nowhere, caught her arm. "Come away! come away! There may be trouble," he cried, drawing her aside on to the steps by St. Martin's Church. Afar off she could see Van Zwieten leading the old man down a side street, and the little band of constables fighting with the mob, who were now inclined to resent any interference. Brenda was in despair. "I want to ask that old man who he is," she cried. But Wilfred held her back in spite of her efforts to follow the Dutchman. "Brenda! don't be foolish. It's dangerous. The people are getting their blood up." "But that old man killed Mr. Malet. I _will_ know who he is." "Van Zwieten will find out." "I dare say," said Brenda, tartly. "But he won't tell you or me." "It's too late now to think of that. Come up here, and let us get a hansom. If you got into trouble, Brenda, Harold would never forgive me!"