no
pausing this time. The place was to be ransacked, if not sacked. And
what would have happened to the poor mad sisters if it had not been for
the presence of mind of Mr. Ablethorpe, it is better not surmising. I
don't believe that the idea of compelling witches by torture to release
their victims is extinct--at least, not in such a place as Breckonside.
That mob of angry men and furious women which flocked out towards the
house of the Golden Farmer would have taken to the red-hot knitting
needle and the flat-irons as naturally as their ancestors two hundred
years ago on Witches' Hill, a little beyond the Bridge End. They would
have burned, too, only that they were afraid of the police--I don't
mean old Codling, but the real police, who would come up from East Dene
and Longtown.

I had seen the first surprise about the empty mail gig which had been
escaladed by the murderers of poor Harry Foster. I had seen the
midnight levy when my father's mare came home without him. But far
beyond either was the sight of that silent flood of people, at the noon
of a winter's day, when in the ordinary course of things they would
have been sitting down to dinner: breaking barriers, throwing down
gates, and spreading over the fields in the direction of Deep Moat
Grange! It fairly took the breath from me.

Once I had even been a leader at that sort of thing. I had found the
traces of the crime that had been committed in the case of poor Harry.
I had been my father's son on the second occasion. People had deferred
to me. Even Ebie the blacksmith, with his fore-hammer over his
shoulder, had asked my advice. But now I was nobody. No one was
anybody. A force which no one could control had been set in motion. I
understood better what is that Democracy of which they speak. It is
the setting in motion of destructive forces, always most dangerous when
most silent.

The idea in the hearts of all was that this must end. There was no
saying whose turn might come next. So the rush was made in the
direction of that sinister house in the depths of the woods, surrounded
by its moat, and looking out upon the gloomy pond, dark grey under the
shadow of the pines.

But those of Breckonside who had imagined that there was nothing but
processioning and incensing about Mr. Ablethorpe had their opinions
considerably altered that day. Mr. De la Poer was with him. They had
been--I forget the word--confessing or cross-examining each othe