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 "I thought we were dead at the first explosion," observed Shirley, drawing a long breath. "I felt myself hit in the temples, and I concluded your heart was pierced; but the reiterated voice was an explanation: those are signals—it is their way—the attack must be near. We should have had wings: our feet have not borne us swiftly enough."

A portion of the copse was now to clear: when they emerged from it, the mill lay just below them: they could look down upon the buildings, the yard; they could see the road beyond. And the first glance in that direction told Shirley she was right in her conjecture: they were already too late to give warning: it had taken more time than they calculated on to overcome the various obstacles which embarrassed the short cut across the fields.

The road, which should have been white, was dark with a moving mass: the rioters were assembled in front of the closed yard gates, and a single figure stood within, apparently addressing them: the mill itself was perfectly black and still; there was neither life, light, nor motion around it.

"Surely he is prepared: surely that is not Moore meeting them alone!" whispered Shirley.

"It is—we must go to him! I will go to him."

"That you will not."

"Why did I come, then? I came only for him. I shall join him."

"Fortunately, it is out of your power: there is no entrance to the yard."