“Let Thornton come get his prize!” shouted another as they surrounded her, grabbing her arms to force her along with them.
“Let me go!” She twisted and pulled mightily to free herself, but there was no use. They only laughed at her.
“Come along, Missy!” they taunted with a surge of glee at their luck. “Let’s see your beau rescue yo’!”
“Aye, she’s a fiery lass, this one!” one of them said as Margaret continued to writhe and resist desperately.
Terror overtook Margaret as they pulled her into the yard among the throng, shouting out about the prize they’d caught.
“Make way! We’ve got the Master’s girl. Let’s see him come save her!”
Upstairs in the Thornton house, the terrific noise of the gate’s destruction and the onslaught of a hundred threatening cries that followed sent Fanny into hysterics.
“They’re coming to kill us! They’ll kill us all!” she screamed, her hands shaking and eyes wild with fright. “We’re going to die!” She began to cry and wail piteously.
“Mother, take Fan. Stay in the back of the house,” Mr. Thornton directed, his manner urgent but controlled.
“When will the police come?” his mother asked, her tone matching his calm, but her eyes revealed her growing panic.
“They will be here soon,” he assured her. “Take care of Fan,” he said, and shut them safely behind the dividing doors of the large drawing room.
He rushed to the window to scan the scene below. Masses of men poured into the long-still mill yard. Some raced to find entrance to the mill where they had worked. His heart thumped harder with another jolt of anxiety. He had securely barred every door, yet these men were desperate.
Mr. Thornton glanced at the upper floors, where he had put the Irish men and women for safekeeping. His every nerve pulsed with the strange thrill of danger. He had knowingly risked provoking their anger so much as this. Let them do their best, he thought defiantly. They will soon find out they cannot win this war.
At that moment, his eyes noticed the developing scene below. Wide berth was being made for a few men coming to the front, dragging with them a woman against her will.
All the energy of arrogant triumph drained from his body as he recognized her. A terror he had never known paralyzed him.
“Margaret!” he whispered, frozen in place only for a fleeting moment before flying down the stairs to the front doors. His hands quaked as he fumbled hastily to remove the bar he had put in place to bolt it shut. At last, he threw open the doors with a great thud.
“Let her go!” he bellowed from the portico above the crowd.
An unholy roar rose from the mob. Fists shot into the air. The spectacle they wanted had begun.
Hoorahs filled the yard to see the Master in a rage as he raced down the stone stairs. The rowdy mob moved out of his way as he ran straight toward Margaret’s captors.
“Let her GO!” he thundered, his face so darkly menacing as he lunged closer that some loosened their hold on her and she wrested free.
He opened his arms to her, and she threw herself into them, wrapping her own arms tightly around his middle, her cheek pressed against his chest. She began sobbing.
He held her close with one arm as he unleashed the ferocity of his anger on them. “Are you proud of yourselves now?” he shouted. The mob quieted down. “Taking an innocent woman prisoner! For what end?” His voice cracked with vehement fury.
“To call you out of your hiding!” someone hollered.
“Here I am! What will you do now?” he challenged them.
No answer was given, for at that moment the first whistles were heard of the mounted police. They galloped into the yard, swinging their batons to disperse the mob. The crowd scattered to escape, shouts and screams mixed with the clatter of hoofbeats.
The tension coursing through Mr. Thornton’s veins eased. He released his hold on Margaret as she pulled away. “Are you hurt?” he asked, looking over her earnestly for cuts or bruises as chaos surrounded them on all sides.
“No...only a little...” she stammered in dazed confusion. Embarrassed now for clinging to him, she stepped away from him.
“Margaret!” he called out, reaching to pull her back. But it was too late.
A man fleeing the horses whizzed by, knocking her to the ground.
The Master crouched down to help her up, terror welling up in him when she did not move. “Margaret!” he called out, his voice hoarse with fear. He swiftly scooped her up into his arms, carrying her away from the stampede, up the stairs to his house. He saw blood trickle from a slight wound on her head near her temple. Panic filled him as she lay limp in his arms. She was so close to him he could smell the scent of rosewater.
