Nearer to the mansion the party drew, but, hidden by the trees, it was not yet in sight.  The old horse was spent, and, when a point opposite the house had been gained, George sprang out, vaulted over the fence into the wood, dashed through the growth of trees, and with another spring leapt down upon the lawn, almost on the selfsame spot where he had jumped over on the evening of the fire.  For the last hundred yards he had been aware of the roar of angry voices.  The sight that met his eyes, now that he was in full view of the scene, was an extraordinary one.

Scattered about the trampled grassplots was a crowd of pitmen, surging hither and thither, some armed with pickaxes, some with hedge-stakes, some with nothing but nature’s weapons.  One fellow was in the act of loading an old blunderbuss.  Reared against the wall of the house were two or three ladders, one smashed in the middle.  The lower windows had been barricaded with boards, but the mob had wrenched away the protection at one point, and men were climbing in with great shouts of triumph.

From the bedroom windows men were holding muskets, ready to fire, but evidently unwilling to do so except as a last resource.  George spied his old friend Matthew at one window; at another, astonishing sight! stood no other than Fieldsend!  His own father was at a third.

At that moment the fellow below raised his blunderbuss and took deliberate aim at the old Squire, who, all unconscious of his danger, was endeavouring to address the mob from an upper window.  The sight seemed to grip George by the throat.

George carried a handspike, a weapon he had brought along from the collier vessel.  A dozen rapid and noiseless strides over the grass brought him within striking distance, and instantly, with a downward stroke like a lightning flash, he had felled to earth man and blunderbuss.  The report came as the man dropped, and with a yell one of the rioters climbing through a lower window dropped back to the ground, shot through the thigh by one of his own party.

“Saved!” the lieutenant shouted, a glance showing him that the old Squire was still unhurt.  All eyes, those of the defenders no less than those of the attacking party, were immediately attracted to the new-comer, who was just in the act of seizing the blunderbuss from the grasp of the prostrate and senseless pitman.

“George!” “Fairburn!” “My boy!” came the cries from the upper windows, and the defenders cheered for pure joy.

The mob, startled for a moment, prepared to retaliate, a hasty whispering taking place between two or three of the leaders.  “Look out for the rush!” cried Matthew, warningly.  George, with a bound, gained the wall, where, back against the stonework, he stood ready with the handspike and the clubbed musket.  So formidable an antagonist did he seem to the men that they held back, till one of them, with a fierce imprecation, dashed forward.  In a trice he was felled to the ground, a loud roar of rage escaping the man’s comrades.  An instant later and the young lieutenant was fighting in the midst of a howling mob.