Hanover Street!  We’ll have him tarred and feathered before the sun is down!” The voice sounded strangely like Weld’s.  They charged at this cry like a herd of mad buffalo, the weaker ones trampled under foot or thrust against the wall.  The windows of Mr. Aikman’s shop were shattered.  I ran with the leaders, my stature and strength standing me in good stead more than once, and as we twisted into Northwest Street I took a glance at the mob behind me, and great was my anxiety at not being able to descry one responsible person.

Mr. Stewart’s house stood, and stands to-day, amid trim gardens, in plain sight of the Severn.  Arriving there, the crowd massed in front of it, some of the boldest pressing in at the gate and spreading over the circle of lawn enclosed by the driveway.  They began to shout hoarsely, with what voices they had left, for Mr. Stewart to come out, calling him names not to be spoken, and swearing they would show him how traitors were to be served.  I understood then the terror of numbers, and shuddered.  A chandler, a bold and violent man, whose leather was covered with grease, already had his foot on the steps, when the frightened servants slammed the door in his face, and closed the lower windows.  In vain I strained my eyes for some one who might have authority with them.  They began to pick up stones, though none were thrown.

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!”