“Tumble out, lad,” he commanded.  “We are in bare time.”

I vaulted over the window-ledge and dropped into the street; my father after me, and Mr. Fett and Billy close behind.  Indeed, that first shot had but given the signal for a general engagement; and as we picked ourselves up and thrust our way into the crowd, a whole volley of filth bespattered the group of Methodists.  In particular I noted the man with whom Nat Fiennes, a minute since, had been conversing—­a little bald-headed fellow of about fifty-five or sixty, in a suit of black which, even at thirty paces distant, showed rusty in the sunshine.  An egg had broken against his forehead, and the yellow of it trickled down over his eyes; yet he stood, hat in hand, neither yielding pace nor offering to resist.  Nat, less patient, had made a rush upon the crowd, which had closed around and swallowed him from sight.  By its violent swaying he was giving it something to digest.  One of the two women shrank terrified by the base of the lamp-post.  The other—­a virago to look at, with eyes that glared from under the pent of her black bonnet—­had pulled the grey-headed preacher down by his coat-tails, and, mounting in his room, clung with an arm around the lamp-post and defied the persecutors.

“Why am I here, friends?” she challenged them.  “O generation of vipers, why am I here?  Answer me, you men of Belial—­you, whose fathers slew the prophets!  Because I glory to suffer for the right; because to turn the other cheek is a Christian’s duty, and as a Christian woman I’ll turn it though you were twice the number, and not be afraid what man can do unto me.”

Now, my father was well known in Falmouth and pretty generally held in awe.  At sight of him advancing, the throng fell back and gave us passage in a sudden lull which reached even to where Nat Fiennes struggled in the grasp of a dozen longshoremen who were hailing him to the quay’s edge, to fling him over.  He broke loose, and before they could seize him again came staggering back, panting and dishevelled.

“Prosper!” he cried, catching sight of me, and grinning delightedly all over his muddied face.  “I knew you would come!  And your father, too?  Splendid, lad, splendid?”

“Ye men of Falmouth”—­the woman by the lamp-post lifted her voice more shrilly—­“what shall I testify of the hardness of your hearts?  Shall I testify that your Mayor sending his crier round, has threatened to whip us through Falmouth streets at the cart-tail?  Shall I testify—­”

But here my father lifted a hand.  “Gently, madam; gently, I am not defending his Worship if he issued any such proclamation; but ’tis an ancient punishment for scolds, and I advise you to lend him no colour of excuse.”

“And who may you be, sir?” she demanded, looking down, angry, but checked in spite of herself by my father’s air of authority.

“One,” he answered, “who has come to see fair play, and who has—­as you may see—­for the moment some little influence with this rabble.  I will continue to exert it while I can, if you on your part will forbear to provoke; for the tongue, madam, has its missiles as well as the hands.”