Shirley

him.«
    »What are they doing now, Shirley? What is that noise?«
    »Hatchets and crow-bars against the yard-gates: they are forcing them. Are you afraid?«
    »No; but my heart throbs fast; I have a difficulty in standing: I will sit down. Do you feel unmoved?«
    »Hardly that – but I am glad I came: we shall see what transpires with our own eyes: we are here on the spot, and none know it. Instead of amazing the curate, the clothier, and the corn-dealer with a romantic rush on the stage, we stand alone with the friendly night, its mute stars, and these whispering trees, whose report our friends will not come to gather.«
    »Shirley – Shirley, the gates are down! That crash was like the felling of great trees. Now they are pouring through. They will break down the mill-doors as they have broken the gate: what can Robert do against so many? Would to God I were a little nearer him – could hear him speak – could speak to him! With my will – my longing to serve him – I could not be a useless burden in his way: I could be turned to some account.«
    »They come on!« cried Shirley. »How steadily they march in! There is discipline in their ranks – I will not say there is courage: hundreds against tens are no proof of that quality; but« (she dropped her voice) »there is suffering and desperation enough amongst them – these goads will urge them forwards.«
    »Forwards against Robert – and they hate him. Shirley, is there much danger they will win the day?«
    »We shall see. Moore and Helstone are of ›earth's first blood‹ – no bunglers – no cravens –«
    A crash – smash – shiver – stopped their whispers. A simultaneously – hurled volley of stones had saluted the broad front of the mill, with all its windows; and now every pane of every lattice lay in shattered and pounded fragments. A yell followed this demonstration – a rioters' yell – a North-of-England – a Yorkshire – a West-Riding – a West-Riding – clothing-district-of-Yorkshire rioters' yell. You never heard that sound, perhaps, reader? So much the better for your ears – perhaps for your heart; since, if it rends the air in hate to yourself, or to the men or principles you approve, the interests to which you wish well, Wrath wakens to the cry of Hate: the Lion shakes his main, and rises to the howl of the Hyena: Caste stands up, ireful, against Caste; and the indignant, wronged spirit of the Middle Rank bears down in zeal and scorn on the famished and furious mass of the Operative Class. It is difficult to be tolerant – difficult to be just – in such moments.
    Caroline rose; Shirley put her arm round her: they stood together as still as the straight stems of two trees. That yell was a long one, and when it ceased, the night was yet full of the swaying and murmuring of a crowd.
    »What next?« was the question of the listeners. Nothing came yet. The mill remained mute as a mausoleum.
    »He
cannot
be alone!« whispered Caroline.
    »I would stake all I have, that he is as little alone as he is alarmed,« responded Shirley.
    Shots were discharged by the rioters. Had the defenders waited for this signal? It seemed so. The hitherto inert and passive mill woke: fire flashed from its empty window-frames; a volley of musketry pealed sharp through the Hollow.
    »Moore speaks at last!« said Shirley, »and he seems to have the gift of tongues; that was not a single voice.«
    »He has been forbearing; no one can accuse him of rashness,« alleged Caroline: »their discharge preceded his; they broke his gates and his windows; they fired at his garrison before he repelled them.«
    What was going on now? It seemed difficult, in the darkness, to distinguish, but something terrible, a still-renewing tumult, was obvious; fierce attacks, desperate repulses; the mill-yard, the mill itself, was full of battle-movement: there was scarcely any cessation now of the discharge of firearms; and there was struggling, rushing, trampling, and shouting between. The aim of the assailants seemed to be to enter the mill, that of the defendants to beat them off. They heard the rebel leader cry, »To the back, lads!« They heard a voice retort, »Come round, we will meet you!«
    »To the counting-house!« was the order again.
    »Welcome! – We shall have you there!« was the response. And accordingly, the fiercest blaze that had yet glowed, the loudest rattle that had yet been heard, burst from the counting-house front, when the mass of rioters rushed