"Where are the authorities?" asked one of the surgeons, who had a roll of bandages in his hand.

"Rushing away, for their lives, like cats on the roofs of the houses.

They are hunting for Colonel Brereton, and calling upon all the people in College Green to come to the aid of the magistrates in the King's name."

"And the magistrates climbing over the roofs of the houses; dear, dear!"

said the old surgeon. "Pray, madam," he said, turning to Joyce, "is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," Joyce said; "this young woman's father is dying in one of the wards."

"What ward? what ward? We are all so busy."

"He was brought in yesterday by a gentleman whose head had been hurt; Mr. Arundel, one of the special constables."

"All right--yes--this way, madam; but let me advise you to make short work of your visit, and get back to your own house! this way."

"Is the man conscious?"

"Yes, there is a flicker up before the end; but he is dying."

Poor Susan pressed her hand upon her side, and clung to her mistress's arm.

"Oh, dear lady, pray for me," she said. "I have come because I knew mother would have wished it."

"Take courage, Susan, and G.o.d will help you."

Many wistful eyes were turned upon the mistress and her maid, as they entered the ward. Some of the wounded people were groaning, others crying aloud for help; but Bob Priday, lying against pillows propped behind him, was still and silent.

Joyce led Susan to the bed, and said:

"I have brought your daughter, and I come to thank you for keeping your promise; for you saved my husband's life."

A strange, half-conscious smile flitted over the man's face.

"I'm sorry I've been such a bad husband to thee, Susan, for thou wert a tidy la.s.s when I married thee. What are thee come to fetch me for?

Susan, don't'ee cry."

"Father, father! my dear mistress has brought me to say 'Good-bye.'"

"Aye, I remember now; tell her 'twas the touch of her little, white hand that did it. Says I to myself, if she can touch the likes of me, perhaps G.o.d may forgive me, do you see, Sue? I thought 'twas your mother at first; I see now; 'tis little Sue--a woman grown. Tell your mistress 'twas her little, white hand that did it. Lor! she is like an angel."

Then Joyce took the hand lying nearest once more in hers, and, kneeling down, raised her clear, sweet voice and repeated:

"The Son of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost.

"There is joy in the presence of the Angels of G.o.d over one sinner that repenteth."

"I do repent," he said; and great tears--the first tears Bob Priday had shed for many a long year--ran down his cheeks. "It's all along of _you_," he said; "as _you_ forgive me, He may."

Then Joyce asked for pardon of Him in whose steps she was following, for this poor, dying man, whose life had been so darkened by sin, and who had brought so much sorrow upon others.

"O Lamb of G.o.d, that taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us;" and the last conscious words which Bob Priday spoke were, "Amen,"

and then, "Kiss me, little Sue."

Joyce left Susan kneeling by the bed, while she turned to others in the ward, pa.s.sing through the long line of beds like a messenger of peace.

A word here and a word there; a gentle touch of the same white hand which had been stretched out to poor Bob Priday, and had brought home to his soul the power of G.o.d's love, and Joyce, in all the first flush of her young beauty, in all the bright gladness of the summer morning at Fair Acres, had never looked so lovely as when she drew Susan gently away, and, putting her arm in hers, left the ward, followed by the wondering and wistful glances of the patients and the nurses.

There was no time to lose, for the sound of distant tumult grew louder.

The old surgeon urged the coachman to take as wide a sweep as possible, to avoid the Bristol streets, and just as they were starting a man rushed in with more news.

The mob were on their way to Bridewell to set the prisoners free who had been committed on Sat.u.r.day, and Colonel Brereton had declared his intention of withdrawing the 14th Light Dragoons from the city.

This last act in the drama of irresolution and incompetence was followed, before sun-down, with the flames of a burning city, and the ever increasing fury of a mob, whose blood was inflamed with the wine from the Mansion House cellars, which had been drunk with eager recklessness, and had excited the brains of the poor, ignorant people till they were literally madmen, ah! and mad women too, as well as rioters.

When Joyce reached her own door, little Falcon met her.

"Mother," he said, "when the church bells were ringing, the soldiers were coming down Park Street, and grandmother said we must not go to church."

"It is better not to go, dear boy," his mother said.

"It's not a bit like Sunday," Falcon exclaimed, "for the people are beginning to shout again, and roar louder than ever down below."

Mrs. Arundel was sitting with Gilbert, who was drowsy and heavy, and asked but few questions as to where Joyce had been.

"It was a great risk," Mrs. Arundel said; "and did it effect any good?"

"I think so," said Joyce, simply. "I took hope to the death-bed of a poor man, the hope which was not denied to the thief on the cross; and I took a daughter to bear witness to her father that love could triumph even over the memory of wrong-doing like his."

Mrs. Arundel shook her head. "We must leave the result with G.o.d," she said; "a G.o.d of love; but He will by no means spare the guilty. Where are Piers and Susan?"

"They are gone back to Down Cottage. I got out of the coach at the turn to Brandon Hill. The children looked so well and happy, and my mother has made them so cosy and comfortable."

Then Joyce took up her post by her husband's bed. The doctor, who came in later, said that he was to be kept very quiet and free from excitement; and, he added, "I wish, indeed, he were further from the town, for I greatly fear worse things are at hand."

The story of that fearful Sunday is too well known to need any minute description here.

Hour by hour the tumult increased; forked flames shot up into the gray, autumnal sky, as the governor's house at the gaol and the chapel were set on fire by the rioters; and, as the benches in the interior of the chapel had been rubbed with pitch, the whole was soon devoured. The county prison followed, and, at half-past eight on Sunday evening, the lurid glare in the heavens was awful to witness.

Poor little Falcon, clasped in his mother's arms as she sat in the window-seat, hid his face in her breast and at last, worn out with terror and excitement, fell asleep. Then she carried him to a room at the back of the house, where Mrs. Arundel and the maids had taken refuge, and returned to watch by Gilbert's side. In her secret heart she was thankful that the "blow at a venture" had prevented her husband from being in the seething crowd below. How terrible would have been her watch had she known that he was there, in the very thick of the fray.

Gilbert lay very still, and often slept, though, in spite of the thick curtains drawn round the large four-post bed, the red glare from without was distinctly visible.

"Joyce," he said, when this glare had become fiercer and more fierce every moment; "Joyce, what are they burning?"

"I cannot tell," she said. "I think it must be the Palace; but it looks like the whole city. It is very terrible."

"Draw back the curtain for a moment, and let me look."

She obeyed him, and lifted also the curtain which shaded the window nearest the bed.