After a brief parley he consented that things should take this course, and I went out, locking the room door after me, and started in search of the sheriff.  On the information I gave, the sheriff acted promptly.  With five officers, fully armed for defence, in case an effort were made to get the prisoner out of their hands, he repaired immediately to the “Sickle and Sheaf.”  I had given the key of my room into his possession.

The appearance of the sheriff, with his posse, was sufficient to start the suggestion that Green was somewhere concealed in the house; and a suggestion was only needed to cause the fact to be assumed, and unhesitatingly declared.  Intelligence went through the reassembling crowd like an electric current, and ere the sheriff could manacle and lead forth his prisoner, the stairway down which he had to come was packed with bodies, and echoing with oaths and maledictions.

“Gentlemen, clear the way!” cried the sheriff, as he appeared with the white and trembling culprit at the head of the stairs.  “The murderer is now in the hands of the law, and will meet the sure consequences of his crime.”

A shout of execration rent the air; but not a single individual stirred.

“Give way, there!  Give way!” And the sheriff took a step or two forward, but the prisoner held back.

“Oh, the murdering villain!  The cursed blackleg!  Where’s Willy Hammond?” was heard distinctly above the confused mingling of voices.

“Gentlemen! the law must have its course; and no good citizen will oppose the law.  It is made for your protection—­for mine—­and for that of the prisoner.”

“Lynch law is good enough for him,” shouted a savage voice.  “Hand him over to us, sheriff, and we’ll save you the trouble of hanging him, and the county the cost of the gallows.  We’ll do the business right.”

Five men, each armed with a revolver, now ranged themselves around the sheriff, and the latter said firmly: 

“It is my duty to see this man safely conveyed to prison; and I’m going to do my duty.  If there is any more blood shed here, the blame will rest with you.”  And the body of officers pressed forward, the mob slowly retreating before them.

Green, overwhelmed with terror, held back.  I was standing where I could see his face.  It was ghastly with mortal fear.  Grasping his pinioned arms, the sheriff forced him onward.  After contending with the crowd for nearly ten minutes, the officers gained the passage below; but the mob was denser here, and blocking up the door, resolutely maintained their position.

Again and again the sheriff appealed to the good sense and justice of the people.

“The prisoner will have to stand a trial and the law will execute sure vengeance.”

“No, it won’t!” was sternly responded.

“Who’ll be judge in the case?” was asked.

“Why, Judge Lyman!” was contemptuously answered.