Part 47 (1/2)

”There's a fine row up at the prison, sir. Two or three thousand of 'em went up there this morning to take him out, and the Governor's up there with the Volunteers, and they say there's going to be a big fight and----”

”The fools!” exclaimed Medland. ”I must go, Chief Justice.”

”Why, what can you do?”

”Stop it, of course. Here, drive to the prison--drive like fury.

Good-bye, Chief Justice. Come and see me soon. Get on, man, get on!”

The old horse was whipped up unmercifully, and the Chief Justice watched Medland disappear in a cloud of dust. He took off his hat to wipe his brow. Two little fragments of the white paper which Medland scattered had settled upon it.

”Poof!” The Chief Justice blew them off and they fluttered down on the gra.s.s. He stooped and picked up the larger bit. If he had looked at it, he would have read ”Good-bye”; but he did not. The amber end of his cigarette-tube was loose: he unscrewed it, twisted the little bit of paper round the screw, and fitted the end on again.

”Capital!” said the Chief Justice. ”It might have been made for it. Poor old Medland!”

CHAPTER x.x.x.

THE END OF A TUMULT.

”Stop!” he shouted; ”stop!” and, taking advantage of the momentary pause, he made his way to the Governor.

”Let me speak to them, sir,” he said; ”I think I can bring them to reason.”

But Lord Eynesford's spirit was roused.

”I must request you to leave the matter to me, Mr. Medland,” he answered stiffly. ”They have had their opportunity of submitting to the law peaceably, and they have chosen to disregard it.”

”If you will give me five minutes, sir,” said Medland very humbly. He loved the rough fellows who were acting so foolishly: perhaps something in his words had given them an excuse. He could not bear to think of them coming to harm, even through their own fault.

”I can't, sir,” answered the Governor sharply. ”I have the dignity of the Crown, which I represent, to think of. Pray stand aside, sir;” and he added to the Colonel--”Your orders are not altered.”

Medland's quick eye measured the distance between him and the rioters.

He was standing near the Governor, at the side of the troops, but a little in advance of their line. A run might bring him to them before the troops could reach them. If they did not resist there could be no bloodshed. There was yet a chance, and suddenly he dashed across in front of the line, crying, ”Don't resist! don't resist!”

At the very moment of his start the Colonel had given the word to charge. No man saw clearly how it happened, but there was a forward dash, then an exclamation from one of the Volunteers, as he reined his horse back on its haunches, a wild cry from the barricade, and a loud shout, ”Halt!” from Kilshaw. The line was stopped, and Kilshaw rode swiftly up to where the trooper had wrenched back his horse. Medland lay on the ground in front of the horse. The man had seen him too late to avoid him; he had been knocked down and trampled with the hoofs. His face was pale, and a slight twist of the features told of pain. He held his hand to his right side.

Kilshaw was off his horse in an instant.

”Back there, back!” he cried. ”Don't crowd on him.”

The Governor rode up; a group gathered round. There was no more thought of the charge. The rioters, after an instant, broke the barricade and came out, one by one, timidly making for the spot.

”Here,” whispered Kilshaw to d.i.c.k Derosne, ”you lift his head. He won't want to see me,” and he drew back behind the wounded man.

The Governor dismounted and stood by his brother, but before d.i.c.k could lift Medland's head, a rough woman, in a coa.r.s.e gown, pushed through, elbowing him and Lord Eynesford aside.

”Let me, gentlemen,” she said, her eyes full of tears, as she pillowed his head in her lap. ”He's always been for us, Mr. Medland has,” she explained. ”Give me a clean handkerchief, one of you.”

The Governor handed his, and she wiped the clammy moisture from the forehead and hands.