“Good God, Chase, is there no way to help them?” groaned Deppingham.

“I’ll never forget poor Bowles, the first time I saw him in his dinky red jacket and that Hooligan cap of his,” reflected Chase, as if he had not heard Deppingham’s remark.  “He put them on and tried to overawe the crowd that night when I was threatened in the market-place.  He did his best, poor chap, and I——­”

“Look!” exclaimed Britt suddenly, pointing toward one of the big gates in the upper end of the park.  “I believe they’re making an attack!”

The next instant the men in the balcony were leaving it pell-mell, picking up the ever-ready rifles as they dashed off through the halls and out into the park.  What they had seen at the gate—­which was one rarely used—­was sufficient to demand immediate action on their part; a demonstration of some sort was in progress at this particular entrance to the grounds.  Saunders was left behind with instructions to guard the chateau against assault from other sources.  Headed by Chase, the four men hurried across the park, prepared for an encounter at the gate.  They kept themselves as well covered as possible by the boxed trees, although up to this time there had been no shooting.

Chase, in advance, suddenly gave vent to a loud cry and boldly dashed out into the open, disregarding all shelter.  Two of the native park patrol were hastening toward the gate from another direction.  Outside the huge, barred gate a throng of men and women were congregated.  Some of the men were vigorously slashing away at the bars with sledges and crow-bars; others were crouching with rifles levelled—­in the other direction!

“It’s Bowles!” shouted Chase eagerly.

The situation at once became clear to those inside the walls.  Bowles and his friends, a score all told, had managed to reach the upper gate and were now clamouring for admission, beset on all sides by the pickets who were watching the chateau.  Bowles, with his pathetic red jacket, could be distinguished in the midst of his huddled followers, shouting frantically for haste on the part of those inside.  Some one was waving a white flag of truce.  A couple of shots were fired from the forest above, and there were screams from the frightened women, shouts from the men, who had ceased battering the gates at the signs of rescue from within.

“For God’s sake, be quick,” shouted Bowles.  “There’s a thousand of them coming up the mines’ road!”

The gates were unlocked by the patrol and the panic-stricken throng tumbled through them and scattered like sheep behind the high, sheltering walls.  Once more the massive gates were closed and the bolts thrown down, just in time to avoid a fusillade of bullets from the outside.  It was all over in a minute.  A hundred throats emitted shouts of rage, curses and threats, and then, as if by magic, the forest became as still as death.