“About ten miles from D——.”

“D——!” My heart sank.  If it had been any other spot!  But it was too late to retract.

With many instructions from our friends and warnings from Mackaye, I started next day on my journey.  I arrived in the midst of a dreary, treeless country, and a little pert, snub-nosed shoemaker met me, and we walked together across the open down towards a circular camp, the earthwork, probably, of some old British town.

Inside it, some thousand or so of labouring people, all wan and haggard, with many women among them, were swarming restlessly round a single large block of stone.

I made my way to the stone, and listened as speaker after speaker poured out a string of incoherent complaints.  Only the intense earnestness gave any force to the speeches.

I noticed that many of the crowd carried heavy sticks, and pitchforks, and other tools which might be used as fearful weapons; and when a fierce man with a squint asked who would be willing to come “and pull the farm about the folks’ ears,” I felt that now or never was the time for me to speak.  If once the spirit of mad, aimless riot broke loose, I had not only no chance of a hearing, but every likelihood of being implicated in deeds which I abhorred.

I sprang on the stone, assured them of the sympathy of the London working-men, and explained the idea of the Charter.

To all which they answered surlily that they did not know anything about politics—­that what they wanted was bread.

In vain I went on, more vehement than ever; the only answer was that they wanted bread.  “And bread we will have!”

“Go, then!” I cried, losing my self-possession.  “Go, and get bread!  After all, you have a right to it.  There are rights above all laws, and the right to live is one.”

I had no time to finish.  The murmur swelled into a roar for “Bread!  Bread!” And amid yells and execrations, the whole mass poured down the hill, sweeping me away with them.  I was shocked and terrified at their threats.  I shouted myself hoarse about the duty of honesty; warned them against pillage and violence; but my voice was drowned in the uproar.  I felt I had helped to excite them, and dare not, in honour, desert them; and trembling, I went on, prepared to see the worst.

A large mass of farm buildings lay before us, and the mob rushed tumultuously into the yard—­just in time to see an old man on horseback gallop hatless away.

“The old rascal’s gone!  And he’ll call up the yeomanry!  We must be quick, boys!” shouted one.

The invaders entered the house, and returned, cramming their mouths with bread, and chopping asunder flitches of bacon.  The granary doors were broken open, and the contents were scrambled for, amid immense waste, by the starving wretches.

Soon the yard was a pandemonium, as the more ruffianly part of the mob hurled furniture out of windows, or ran off with anything they could carry.  The ricks had been fired, and the food of man, the labour of years, devoured in aimless ruin, when some one shouted:  “The yeomanry!” And at that sound a general panic ensued.