Suddenly a figure appeared at an upper window,—­a thin and wasted woman dressed in white, with sad, sweet features.  It was Mrs. Stewart.  Without flinching she looked down upon the upturned faces; but a mob of that kind has no pity.  Their leaders were the worst class in our province, being mostly convicts who had served their terms of indenture.  They continued to call sullenly for “the traitor.”  Then the house door opened, and the master himself appeared.  He was pale and nervous, and no wonder; and his voice shook as he strove to make himself heard.  His words were drowned immediately by shouts of “Seize him!  Seize the d—­d traitor!” “A pot and a coat of hot tar!”

Those who were nearest started forward, and I with them.  With me ’twas the decision of an instant.  I beat the chandler up the steps, and took stand in front of the merchant, and I called out to them to fall back.

To my astonishment they halted.  The skirts of the crowd were now come to the foot of the little porch.  I faced them with my hand on Mr. Stewart’s arm, without a thought of what to do next, and expecting violence.  There was a second’s hush.  Then some one cried out: 

“Three cheers for Richard Carvel!”

They gave them with a will that dumfounded me.

“My friends,” said I, when I had got my wits, “this is neither the justice nor the moderation for which our province is noted.  You have elected your committee of your free wills, and they have claims before you.”

“Ay, ay, the committee!” they shouted.  “Mr. Carvel is right.  Take him to the Committee!”

Mr. Stewart raised his hand.

“My friends,” he began, as I had done, “when you have learned the truth, you will not be so hasty to blame me for an offence of which I am innocent.  The tea was not for me.  The brig was in a leaky and dangerous state and had fifty souls aboard her.  I paid the duty out of humanity—­”

He had come so far, when they stopped him.

“Oh, a vile Tory!” they shouted.  “He is conniving with the Council.  ’Twas put up between them.”  And they followed this with another volley of hard names, until I feared that his chance was gone.

“You would best go before the Committee, Mr. Stewart,” I said.

“I will go with Mr. Carvel, my friends,” he cried at once.  And he invited me into the house whilst he ordered his coach.  I preferred to remain outside.

I asked them if they would trust me with Mr. Stewart to Church Street.

“Yes, yes, Mr. Carvel, we know you,” said several.  “He has good cause to hate Tories,” called another, with a laugh.  I knew the voice.

“For shame, Weld,” I cried.  And I saw McNeir, who was a stanch friend of mine, give him a cuff to send him spinning.