Every now and then news came from persons passing along the road, and for a time things seemed to be mending.

The police were getting the upper hand; the Mayor had made a plucky speech to the crowd in the market-place, with good results; the rioters were wavering; and the soldiers had been stopped by telephone.

Then following hard on the last rumour came a sudden rush of worse news.

A policeman had been killed--two injured--the rioters had gained a footing in the market-hall, and driven out both the police and the specials--and after all, the soldiers had been sent for.
Helena wandered down to the gate of the farm lane opening on the main road, consumed with restlessness and anxiety.

If only they had let her go with them! Buntingford's last look as he raised his hat to her before departing, haunted her memory--the appeal in it, the unspoken message.
Might they not, after all, be friends?
There seemed to be an exquisite relaxation in the thought.
Another hour passed.