For a fraction of a second, as he alighted, his eyes took in the crowd, and the girl at bay against the wall.

She was raised a little above her tormentors by the steps on which she had taken refuge.
On one side her hair hung loose, and the cheek beneath it was cut and bleeding, giving her a piteous and tragic aspect.

Four out of five of her assailants were women; one of these had torn her face with her nails.

Streaks of mud were mingled with the blood which ran down her neck; and even as Claude recovered himself after the drop from the window, a missile, eluding the bent arm with which she strove to shield her face, struck and bespattered her throat where the collar of her frock had been torn open--perhaps by the same rough clutch which had dragged down her hair.

The ring about her--like all crowds in the beginning--were strangely silent; but a yell of derision greeted this success, and a stone flew, narrowly missing her, and another, and another.