The argument seemed to strike home. There is always a lurking sense
of rude justice in a mob--at least a British mob.

"Don't you see how foolish you were?--You tried threats, too. Now
you all know Mr. Fletcher; you are his men--some of you. He is not a
man to be threatened."

This seemed to be taken rather angrily; but John went on speaking, as
if he did not observe the fact.

"Nor am I one to be threatened, neither. Look here--the first one of
you who attempted to break into Mr. Fletcher's house I should most
certainly have shot. But I'd rather not shoot you, poor, starving
fellows! I know what it is to be hungry. I'm sorry for you--sorry
from the bottom of my heart."

There was no mistaking that compassionate accent, nor the murmur
which followed it.

"But what must us do, Mr. Halifax?" cried Jacob Baines: "us be
starved a'most. What's the good o' talking to we?"

John's countenance relaxed. I saw him lift his head and shake his
hair back, with that pleased gesture I remember so well of old. He
went down to the locked gate.

"Suppose I gave you something to eat, would you listen to me
afterwards?"

There arose up a frenzied shout of assent. Poor wretches! they were