Far above them, out of the crags that seemed to pierce the sapphire sky, poured a stream dazzling white, wreathed in spray, mad to escape; leaping down like a storm spirit to kiss the river, that laughed below, with a rippling note of sheer delight, under the golden shafts of sunshine.

McTaggart's blue eyes drank it in. The picture blent with his own mood. So, he would carry Jill away, borne on the flood tide of his love.

"Over that hill, sir," said the chauffeur--"is where the fire was--Miss Morgan's house--the Suffragettes, at it again--I expect you saw it in the papers?"

"Yes--confound them!" said McTaggart.

The man nodded, approving the sentiment.

"They say, sir, they're up to mischief to-day--going to upset the speech-making. I don't envy them if they does!"

The note in his voice spurred McTaggart's fears.

"A rough lot about here?"

"There'll be murder done," said the man grimly. "They don't stop at much when they're roused."

"Are we nearly there?"

The chauffeur nodded. "In five minutes. Just over the rise and down to the valley. The meeting's held on the football ground in Cluar itself. I pa.s.sed it as I came along. When we get there, sir, I'd best drop you, a bit before, and then run by, turn and come back and wait for you at the foot of the hill, if that will do?"

"Sounds all right--keep the engine going. I shan't be long if I can help it." He swallowed down his anxiety as they started to mount the incline.

Up and up ... Then, with a sense of open s.p.a.ce 'neath the roof of heaven, a panorama spread before them like a vast sea of green and gray.

The swelling curves of the mighty Earth, patched with woods and blackened crags, rolled up in giant waves that broke on the sky line, blurred with heat.

Purple mountains, silvery vales; and above, like a scroll of parchment drawn to an endless length across the world and worked on by some long-dead monk in azure and gold illumination, the veil of the sky was stretched, superb, shutting out the face of G.o.d.

"What a view!" McTaggart sighed.

Below in the valley he saw grey roofs, like stones carelessly pitched downhill, tiny fields and a gleam of blue where the river glided in and out.

Now they were hovering like a bird over the village; then, as the road, steep and winding, swept them down, the cottages rose all about them.

They pa.s.sed a church, a school, a bridge, and slackened speed.

"Here we are. It's through that gate on the right, sir," the chauffeur pointed down the road.

They could see a field packed with people about an erection of wooden planks, and as the engine ceased to throb McTaggart caught another sound--once heard, never forgotten--the snarling note of an angry crowd.

"Up to mischief," said the chauffeur.

But McTaggart was out, cutting along as hard as his long legs would go, a sick fear in his heart. Where was Jill in this turmoil?

He sprang through a torn gap in the hedge and pushed his way determinedly through the loose fringe of the crowd that surged round the high platform. All around him people were shouting; the mob moved in little rushes, swaying forward, beaten back from the moving centre of disturbance.

Then above the angry hum a shriek rose, shrill with fear. McTaggart saw, for a moment, a figure raised above the heads. A young girl with a bleeding face, hair streaming on the breeze, one shoulder bare and white where the tattered dress had fallen away.

"Down her!" "Duck her!" "To the river..." Wild cries in uncouth Welsh.

McTaggart swore out aloud. He was fighting his way, using his fists, forcing a path mercilessly.

Again he caught a glimpse of the girl. Thank G.o.d! it was _not_ Jill.

As he paused to get his breath, an old hag with an evil face sprang up toward the victim and clutched at a streaming lock of hair. With a coa.r.s.e laugh she tore at it, the claw-like fingers with their trophy waved aloft, as again a scream rent the air and the crowd cheered.

McTaggart's blood went cold at the sight. It was horrible enough for men to lay their rough hands on a girl, but a fellow-woman, a mother, perhaps? He felt physically sick.

For a moment, wedged in and powerless, his brain flashed up another picture, that of the French Revolution and the foul women of the Halles, pressing round the guillotine to dip their hands in the blood of the victims. Was this what Woman's Rights involved?--this civil war among themselves?

And then above the angry hum a clear and brave young voice rang out:

"Votes for Women!"

McTaggart groaned, pride and agony in his heart.

"Jill!"--he shouted with all his strength--"Jill! where are you?"

He felt the serried ranks slacken as the crowd swung back to this new offender.

"Votes for Women!"

Again it rang.

"Votes for..." the voice choked on the word.

McTaggart went fighting mad. He was in the thick of it, charging through, giving and taking blow for blow. Men and women scattered before him.

"Jill! ... Jill!" It was a war cry.

High above them on the platform a puppet of Government waved his arms like an excited marionette, in a shrill voice, urging more "moderation"!

Just as McTaggart reached Jill's side a burly miner caught the girl by the frail collar of her blouse. The thin stuff ripped down to her waist.

"Out you go, you ---- ----!" But the last foul word went down his throat under McTaggart's clenched fist, and the man fell back, stunned and bleeding.

"Now--Jill--get behind--quick! Hold onto my coat."

He heard her breathless "Peter!--_You_!" as they started the perilous retreat.

Once again she cried his name, and, wheeling round, he rescued her from the clutches of two angry women and on again, fighting his way.

Once too he laughed aloud and stepped across a fallen body.

"Look out, Jill!" he shouted back and felt her stumble, dragging his coat.

So at last they cleared the crowd. As he swung her through the hedge something sharp struck his brow. He felt no pain, but a warm, wet stream that ran down, and he brushed it aside impatiently out of his eyes.

More stones whizzed about them. With one arm through Jill's, he started to run, but she gasped: