Nothing came yet. The mill remained mute as a mausoleum.
"He cannot be alone!" whispered Caroline.
"I would stake all I have, that he is as little alone as he is alarmed," responded Shirley.
Shots were discharged by the rioters. Had the defenders waited for this signal? It seemed so. The hitherto inert and passive mill woke: fire flashed from its empty window-frames; a volley of musketry pealed sharp through the Hollow.
"Moore speaks at last!" said Shirley, "and he seems to have the gift of tongues; that was not a single voice."
"He has been forbearing; no one can accuse him of rashness," alleged Caroline: "their discharge preceded his; they broke his gates and his windows; they fired at his garrison before he repelled them."
What was going on now? It seemed difficult, in the darkness, to distinguish, but something terrible, a still-renewing tumult, was obvious: fierce attacks, desperate repulses; the mill-yard, the mill itself, was full of battle-movement: there was scarcely any cessation now of the discharge of firearms; and there was struggling, rushing, trampling, and shouting between. The aim of the assailants seemed to be to enter the mill, that of the defendants to beat them off. They heard the rebel leader cry, "To the back, lads!" They heard a voice retort, "Come round, we will meet you!"
"To the counting-house!" was the order again.
