The
troopers reached the close no more than in time. Sergeant Flanagan,
only half understanding the reason for so much anger, but
understanding that this anger was very real and very dangerous, was
desperately defending the horses with his two companions against
the vanguard of the assailants. There was a swift rush of the
dragoons and in an instant they were in the saddle, all but the
lieutenant, of whose absence they were suddenly made conscious.
Flanagan would have gone back for him, and he had in fact begun to
issue an order with that object when a sudden surge of the swelling,
roaring crowd cut off the dragoons from the door through which they
had emerged. Sitting their horses, the little troop came together,
their sabres drawn, solid as a rock in that angry human sea that
surged about them. The moon riding now clear overhead irradiated
that scene of impending strife.
Flanagan, standing in his stirrups, attempted to harangue the mob.
But he was at a loss what to say that would appease them, nor able
to speak a language they could understand. An angry peasant made a
slash at him with a billhook. He parried the blow on his sabre, and
with the flat of it knocked his assailant senseless.
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