Marks of bloody fingers stained his collar.
His face was white, and his eyes filled with the fear of death.
Within, upon the floor, lay his wife, who had fainted.

A son and a daughter, his two grown-up children, clung terrified to one of the servants, who kneeled half fainting herself by the side of the mill-owner's wife.

A table overturned and fragments of a late dinner scattered over the sideboard and on the floor, a broken plate, the print of a muddy foot on the white tiling before the open fire,--the whole picture flashed upon Philip like a scene out of the French Revolution, and he almost rubbed his eyes to know if he was awake and in America in the nineteenth century.

He was intensely practical, however, and the nature of his duty never for a moment escaped him.

He at once advanced and said calmly:-- "What does all this mean?
Why this attack on Mr.Winter ?" The moment Mr.Winter saw Philip and heard his voice he cried out, trembling: "Is that you, Mr.Strong?
Thank God! Save me! They are going to kill me!" "Who talks of killing, or taking human life contrary to law!" exclaimed Philip, coming up closer and placing his hand on Mr.Winter's arm.