!" cried the policeman. "If you destroy the mill
we'll all starve!"

"The miller himself is running it," said Ambrose coolly. "With a gun
to his head," he added, grinning over his shoulder. "I seized him in
his bed and carried him here."

"Good man!" Greer, behind him, gratefully murmured.

"If you refuse to give yourself up I'll take you by force!" cried
Macfarlane.

"Come ahead!" sang Ambrose. "I've got twenty-five men here. They have
orders not to shoot, but if you open fire on us, the consequences will
be on your head!"

"I'll do my duty!" shouted the policeman.

"Get your crowd together!" taunted Ambrose. "Lay your guns down, and
come on over and put us out if you're men enough. We'll stand by the
result."

The men behind Ambrose raised a cheer. The sound did not improve the
morale of the other side. Even in the dark, the difference between the
two crowds could be felt.

Ambrose's men were fighting for what they felt to be their rights; the
men behind the policeman had no incentive--except their jobs.
Macfarlane paused to consult with another man--probably Gordon Strange.

The others talked in excited whispers, and circled on one another
without making any forward movement. Messengers were despatched up and
down the road.

Suddenly a petticoated figure came flying down the sidewalk from the
store. Ambrose's heart leaped up, and then as suddenly calmed. He
told himself grimly he was cured.

It was Colina. "What are you standing here for?" she cried
passionately. "Are you afraid? They are nothing but common robbers!
Go and put them out!"

No man moved.

"Fire on them!" cried Colina. "I order it! I take the responsibility."

They still hung back. Macfarlane could be seen attempting to
expostulate with her.

"Don't speak to me!" cried Colina. "When you find robbers in your
house you shoot them down! You're afraid! I will go myself!"

All in a breath she came flying across the road. Ambrose, surprised,
fell back a step from the door. Before he could recover himself she
stood in the middle of the shed facing them with blazing eyes.

She had risen hastily; her glorious hair was twisted in a loose coil
and pinned insecurely; the habit she had thrown on was still open at
the throat.

She had caught up a riding-crop; the knuckles that gripped it were
white. Ambrose, admiring her in an odd, detached way, was reminded of
Bellona, the goddess of anger.

"What does this mean?" s