In 1842 came the great stoppage of work.  The mills ceased; the miners went “to play,” despairing of a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work; and the inhabitants of Woodgate—­the Hell-cats, as they were called—­ stirred up by a Chartist delegate, sallied forth with Simon Hatton, named the “liberator,” at their head to deal ruthlessly with all “oppressors of the people.”

They sacked houses, plundered cellars, ravaged provision shops, destroyed gas-works and stormed workhouses.  In time they came to Mowbray.  There the liberator came face to face with Baptist Hatton without recognising his brother.

Stephen Morley and Baptist Hatton were in close conference.

“The times are critical,” said Hatton.

“Mowbray may be burnt to the ground before the troops arrive,” Morley replied.

“And the castle, too,” said Hatton quietly.  “I was thinking only yesterday of a certain box of papers.  To business, friend Morley.  This savage relative of mine cannot be quiet.  If he does not destroy Trafford’s Mill it will be the castle.  Why not the castle instead of the mill?”

Trafford’s Mill was saved by the direct intervention of Walter Gerard.  All the people of Mowbray knew the good reputation of the Traffords, and Gerard’s eloquence turned the mob from the attack.

While the liberator and the Hell-cats hesitated, a man named Dandy Mick, prompted by Morley, urged that a walk should be taken in Lord de Mowbray’s park.

The proposition was received with shouts of approbation.  Gerard succeeded in detaching a number of Mowbray men, but the Hell-cats, armed with bludgeons, poured into the park and on to the castle.

Lady de Mowbray and her friends made their escape, taking Sybil, who had sought refuge from the mob, with them.

Mr. St. Lys gathered a body of men in defence of the castle, but came too late to prevent the entrance of the Hell-cats.  Singularly enough, Morley and one or two of his followers entered with the liberator.

The first great rush was to the cellars, and the invaders were quickly at work knocking off the heads of bottles, and brandishing torches.  Morley and his lads traced their way down a corridor to the winding steps of the Round Tower, and forced their way into the muniment room of the castle.  It was not till his search had nearly been abandoned in despair that he found the small blue box blazoned with the arms of Valence.  He passed it hastily to a trusted companion, Dandy Mick, and bade him deliver it to Sybil Gerard at the convent.

At this moment the noise of musketry was heard; the yeomanry were on the scene.

Morley, cut off from flight by the military, was shot, pistol in hand, with the name of Sybil on his lips.  “The world will misjudge me,” he thought—­“they will call me hypocrite, but the world is wrong.”

The man with the box escaped through the window, and in spite of the fire, troopers, and mob, reached the convent in safety.