At that moment the fellow below raised his blunderbuss and took
deliberate aim at the old Squire, who, all unconscious of his danger,
was endeavouring to address the mob from an upper window. The sight
seemed to grip George by the throat.
George carried a handspike, a weapon he had brought along from the
collier vessel. A dozen rapid and noiseless strides over the grass
brought him within striking distance, and instantly, with a downward
stroke like a lightning flash, he had felled to earth man and
blunderbuss. The report came as the man dropped, and with a yell one
of the rioters climbing through a lower window dropped back to the
ground, shot through the thigh by one of his own party.
"Saved!" the lieutenant shouted, a glance showing him that the old
Squire was still unhurt. All eyes, those of the defenders no less than
those of the attacking party, were immediately attracted to the
new-comer, who was just in the act of seizing the blunderbuss from the
grasp of the prostrate and senseless pitman.
"George!" "Fairburn!" "My boy!" came the cries from the upper windows,
and the defenders cheered for pure joy.
The mob, startled for a moment, prepared to retaliate, a hasty
whispering taking place between two or three of the leaders.
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