She had a terrible desire to sob her heart out, and a queer sensation of being tossed in mid-air.  Then she gazed about in horror.  She was on her feet, had evidently been dragged up, and John, the policeman, held her arm in a pinch that left its mark.  Gasping, she was shoved along through the doorway and into a scene of confusion.

They stood a few minutes in the judge’s end of the court-room—­a crowd eddying about them.  Rhona had a queer feeling in her head; the lights blinded her; the noise seemed like the rush of waters in her ears.  Then she thought sharply: 

“I must get myself together.  This is the court.  It will be all over in a minute.  Where’s Mr. Joe?  Where’s the lawyer?  Where’s my father?”

She looked about eagerly, searching faces.  Not one did she know.  What had happened?  She felt the spasm of chills returning to her.  Had Miss Craig failed her?  Where was the strikers’ lawyer?  Were there friends waiting out in the tired audience, among the sleepy witnesses?  Suddenly she saw Blondy laughing and talking with a gaudy woman in the crowd.  She trembled all at once with animal rage....  She could have set upon him with her nails and her teeth.  But she was fearfully afraid, fearfully helpless.  What could she do?  What would be done with her?

John pushed her forward a few steps; her own volition could not take her, and then she saw the judge.  This judge—­would he understand?  Could he sympathize with a young girl who was wrongly accused?  The magistrate was talking carelessly with his clerk, and Rhona felt in a flash that all this, which to her was terrible and world-important, to him was mere trivial routine.

She waited, her heart pounding against her ribs, her breath coming short and stifled.  Then all at once she saw Joe and Myra as they entered the gate, and a beautiful smile lit up her face.  It was a blessed moment.

They came up; Joe spoke in a low breath.

“Rhona, have you seen the lawyer about?”

“No,” she muttered.

Joe looked around.  He stood above that crowd by half a head.  Then he muttered bitterly to Myra: 

“Why isn’t that fellow here to-night?  You shouldn’t have let me sleep!”

Myra was abashed, and Rhona, divining his misery, felt quite alone again, quite helpless.

Suddenly then she was pushed forward, and next the indoor policeman was handing her up to the judge, and now she stood face to face with her crisis.  Again her heart pounded hard, her breath shortened.  She was dimly aware of Joe and Myra behind her, and of Blondy and his friends beside her.  She looked straight at the magistrate, not trusting herself to glance either side.

The magistrate looked up and nodded to the policeman.

“What’s the charge?” His voice was a colorless monotone.

“Assault, your Honor.  This girl was picketing in the strike, and this private detective told her to move on.  Then she struck him.”