he dining-room.

Then she went to the door leading to the garden, called the gardener,
who, in spite of the tumult below, went on sweeping the fallen leaves
together in a heap, as if it were the one great business of life.

"Henry," Joyce called; and, shouldering his broom, the man came with
slow but sure steps up to the level gravel path under the windows. "Will
you come round with me and see that all the doors and windows on the
ground-floor are safely closed and barred, and the gate locked at the
bottom of the garden?"

She turned back a moment, and taking a shawl from the hall, threw it
over her head.

"Bars and doors won't keep 'em out if they've a mind to get in," said
Henry; "the din is getting louder and louder. When will the master be
back, ma'am?"

"I don't know quite. Yes," she said, "this door is safe; and I wonder
how anyone could have climbed that wall?"

Henry looked curiously at her.

"Somebody _did_ climb it," he said, "for I found great footmarks here a
week ago, and showed 'em to the master."

Joyce knew well enough whose footprints they were, but she said nothing.

"I should like you to come into the cellar with me, Henry," she said,
turning to retrace her steps; and Falcon shouted from his watch-tower:

"They are making a greater noise than ever, mother, and I see such lots
and lots of people on the quay. Come up, mother."

"I am coming very soon, dear," she said.

Then Joyce finished her inspection of the cellar, not without a thrill
of remembered fear as she heard the creaking of the door, as it closed
behind her.

"You had better stay in the kitchen with cook, Henry, and be on the
watch till your master's return. He may not be home till very late, for
the special constables are on duty; but what an increasing noise! What
can be going on now?"

"They'll tear the Recorder limb from limb if they catch him; they are
just like wild beasts in their rage against him. Lor! what a pity it is
to meddle; let 'em have reform if they like, or leave it alone, it's no
odds to me, nor thousands of other folk. It is a great ado about
nothing; what will be, will be, and there's an end of it."

These opinions of Gilbert Arundel's gardener were decidedly safe, and
had they been held by the mass of the Bristol people, the ensuing scenes
of strife, fire, and bloodshed, would have been spared. But all men are
not of the same easy, philosophical temperament!

And, doubtless, the stirring of the water