‘But you cannot climb walls?’

‘To-night I can.’

‘You are afraid of hedges, and the beck which we shall be forced to cross?’

‘I can cross it.’

They started; they ran. Many a wall checked but did not baffle them. Shirley was sure-footed and agile; she could spring like a deer when she chose. Caroline, more timid, and less dexterous, fell once or twice, and bruised herself; but she rose again directly, saying she was not hurt. A quickset hedge bounded the last field: they lost time in seeking a gap in it; the aperture, when found, was narrow, but they worked their way through; the long hair, the tender skin, the silks and the muslins suffered; but what was chiefly regretted was the impediment this difficulty had caused to speed. On the other side they met the beck, flowing deep in a rough bed; at this point a narrow plank formed the only bridge across it. Shirley had trodden the plank successfully and fearlessly many a time before; Caroline had never yet dared to risk the transit.

‘I will carry you across,’ said Miss Keeldar; ‘you are light, and I am not weak: let me try.’

‘If I fall in, you may fish me out,’ was the answer, as a grateful squeeze compressed her hand.

Caroline, without pausing, trod forward on the trembling plank as if it were a continuation of the firm turf; Shirley, who followed, did not cross it more resolutely or safely. In their present humour, on their present errand, a strong and foaming channel would have been a barrier to neither. At the moment they were above the control either of fire or water; all Stilbro’ Moor, alight and aglow with bonfires, would not have stopped them, nor would Calder or Aire thundering in flood. Yet one sound made them pause. Scarce had they set foot on the solid opposite bank, when a shot split the air from the north. One second lapsed. Further off, burst a like note in the south. Within the space of three minutes, similar signals boomed in the east and west.

‘I thought we were dead at the first explosion,’ observed Shirley, drawing a long breath. ‘I felt myself hit in the temples, and I concluded your heart was pierced; but the reiterated voice was an explanation; those are signals—it is their way—the attack must be near. We should have had wings; our feet have not borne us swiftly enough.’

A portion of the copse was now to clear; when they emerged from it, the mill lay just below them: they could look down upon the buildings, the yard; they could see the road beyond. And the first glance in that direction told Shirley she was right in her conjecture: they were already too late to give warning; it had taken more time than they calculated on to overcome the various obstacles which embarrassed the short cut across the fields.

The road, which should have been white, was dark with a moving mass; the rioters were assembled in front of the closed yard gates, and a single figure stood within, apparently addressing them; the mill itself was perfectly black and still; there was neither life, light, nor motion around it.

‘Surely he is prepared; surely that is not Moore meeting them alone?’ whispered Shirley.

‘It is—we must go to him! I will-go to him.’

‘That you will not.’

‘Why did I come, then? I came only for him. I shall join him.’

‘Fortunately, it is out of your power: there is no entrance to the yard.’