Isabel was shown to the drawing room and left to wait, listening all the while to the sounds which roared up from the end of the street; creeping in through the windows which had been left half-open to cool the room. She heard a swell of noise with her attentive ear; knowing well what sound to listen for, but the air was still, and she knew the wind could not carry such a roar towards her. She felt, with some trepidation, that they must be moving nearer - sweeping forwards as one great entity - but then the noise would die away, only to be filled with a great lull which was so heavy with expectation - so loaded with some unknown dread - that she could almost wish to hear their battle cries and watch them surge, so that she might know what they were facing; so that she would be ready for their coming.

As she listened, waiting for the growing sound of the swell to rupture once again, Fanny arrived in her frills and lace, and spoke in a voice so careless and unconcerned, that she had grudgingly to cede, that the girl was a true simpleton; for she spoke words of understanding, but the inflection of her voice - the expression on her face - told all that she had no understanding whatsoever.

'Mamma will come directly, Miss Darrow. She wished for me to apologise for the delay. Perhaps you have heard that my brother has imported Irish to work in his mill? The workers have learnt of it and it has quite upset them; as though my brother has not the right to choose who it is he should employ! And then it is, that these foolish Milton men scare and threaten the Irish, until they are too scared to leave the mill. Look up there, Miss Darrow,' continued Fanny, pointing beyond the window. 'You can see there, the Irish; up in the room above the mill. My brother is trying to comfort them, for the workers have scared them so that the women cry to return home. See! they will not work and they will not allow others to work! No, John tries to calm them, and mother sees to their food, for up there, they must all sleep; we durst not let them out.'

Mrs Thornton arrived; dark cheeked and grim mouthed, and heard Isabel's awkward explanation of her unexpected presence in their home, but stilled and listened at the window, before she could form a reply to the request of a water-bed.

'They are at the gates! Call John, Fanny! He must return from the mill; they are at the gates!' cried Mrs Thornton, in alarm, and as Fanny moved to do as she was bid, both Mrs Thornton and Isabel heard the gathering tramp of the masses, crowding outside the mill gates. A look of understanding passed between both women, and Isabel sprang into action.

'Shut down the windows, Mrs Thornton! Shut down the windows, for they could throw a missile at the window.' Both ladies moved forward, each seeing to a window, but stopped and listened to the roaring crowd, before their commission was complete. The masses surged, and the great gates trembled and groaned, but did not yield; inciting the crowd's angry cries further. Their roars grew and their excitement overtook them, and then an eerie silence fell as the crowd appeared to retreat from the doors, only to surge forward once again in one united movement, crushing at the wooden barrier with renewed vigour. All the servants had gathered at the windows, to watch alongside both women, but Fanny, on hearing those savage cries, had taken herself to the sofa, screaming that she should be murdered.

Mrs Thornton watched anxiously for her son - still caught up with his Irish in the mill. She was terrified that the men would force the gates and pour into the yard, forcing her son prisoner up in that mill, but at length he rushed from the mill door, locking it hastily behind him. He stole a quick glance up at the Irishmen - faces pressed anxiously against the glass of the windows - and smiled at them good courage, before running across the yard and to the front door, where he called out for someone to let him in, as Fanny - in her terror - had seen fit to lock her brother out as she had flown from the room in hysterics. Mrs Thornton rushed down herself; the familiar tones of Mr Thornton's deep, commanding voice, only serving as a battle cry for the crowds beyond the gate, enflaming them in their heated passion. His voice so discernible to their ears - sparking in them, a barrage of hostile voices, savage in their anger, relentless in their pursuit of him, and Mrs Thornton, preceding her son into the room, had a face flushed white with horror. Mr Thornton followed swiftly behind, cheeks alight with excitement, but eyes gleaming in response to the danger, standing proud and defiant like an ever-alert soldier.

Mr Thornton spied Miss Darrow, and moved quickly towards her. He spoke low and rushed, but with a tenderness as though he sought to reassure her.

'Miss Darrow, I am afraid you have visited us at an inopportune moment, and I fear you may now be exposed to any risk we have to face. Mother!' cried he, in his commanding voice, not taking his eyes from Miss Darrow, 'had not you better retreat to the back rooms - away from these windows? They could have got into the stable yard from Pinner's Lane, but if not, you will be safer there. Go, now. Go Jane!' ordered Mr Thornton of the upper-servant, and she fled with the other maids who had gathered about the frightful scene.

'I stay with you!' announced Mrs Thornton, defiantly; jutting her chin in resolution, but her noble offering served little purpose, as retreat into the back rooms proved fruitless, for the crowds had surged from behind the mill house, and surrounded them on all sides. The roar of the crowds grew exponentially, filling the air with the torrid cries of suffering; assaulting their ears from all directions, and the deafening cries, which swept fear into ones' very soul, sent the servants off up to the garrets, retreating in fear. Mr Thornton smiled scornfully as he listened to their shrieking retreat, and turned to look upon the silent Isabel. She was stood before the window, looking down at the crowds before the great oak gates. Her spine was rigid, her shoulders held stiff and square as she stood to attention, her hands placed resolutely behind her back. He noted - from the shadows at the floor - that she had widened her stance, as though to afford herself a greater surety of foot, and in her eye he saw an assessing gaze, full of determined conviction and not one ounce of fear.

'The Irish are all locked up there, above the mill?' asked she, as he stepped closer. 'That door; is it their only means of escape? Is there another way in or out?'

'There is a back flight of stairs; I bid them to run that way if the mill door should be breeched.' Isabel set her jaw at the vision of screaming Irishmen - women terrified, hurtling down the stairs with abandon.

'When will the soldiers arrive?' asked Mrs Thornton, anxiously but without fear. Mr Thornton took out his watch with the same studied composure with which he did everything, and made some small calculation, observed by Isabel. For all the turmoil which took place below, she could not help but think him so very brave and resolute; the epitome of graceful masculinity, and she felt a pang of admiration and longing, which she knew would never be quenched.

'If Williams was able to get off as soon as I bid him - and was not delayed by them out there - I should say some twenty minutes or more.'

'Twenty minutes!' gasped Mrs Thornton, and now she truly did sound afraid.

'Shut down the windows, Mother. Miss Darrow - that window, if you will,' ordered he (for they had not completed their earlier actions, having been distracted by the sounds from beyond the windows). 'The gates shan't withstand another blow, Mother.' Isabel quickly saw to her own window, and darted to Mrs Thornton's side, who was delayed in her commission by the trembling of her fingers.

A silence ensued, and stole over the party for some several minutes. Mrs Thornton looked to her son for guidance, but his face was set, betraying no expression of hope, nor fear. She turned her notice to Miss Darrow, still stood sentient about the window; eyes ever watchful. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she regretted that she could only wait; unused to being idle, as she was.

'Are they gone?' whimpered Fanny, lifting her head limply from the sofa.

'Gone!' replied Mr Thornton, incredulously. 'Listen!' And there followed a great swell of breath and a heaving exertion, as the crowd descended upon the mill door as one almighty body. The oak doors creaked and groaned in protest. There was the painful scream of iron being torn apart and the mill gate fell, the masses streaming into the yard. Upon the sound of their doomed fate, Fanny rose from her seat and tottered, before falling forwards into her mother's arms. Catching her limp form, Mrs Thornton carried her from the room.

'Thank God!' cried Mr Thornton, watching his sister's departure. He turned back to Miss Darrow; now left alone, and frowned. 'Ought you not go upstairs, too, Miss Darrow?' asked he, with an anxiety to ensure her safety. She moved to declare that she would stay put, for she knew she could not leave him if she was to see him unharmed, but the noise of the crowds surging below drowned out her voice, and both listened to the fearful tramp of the enflamed crowd. 'Do not fear,' Mr Thornton said low, meaning to reassure her. 'The soldiers should be here soon, and then they will see; they will feel the might of the law.' Isabel stood watching and waiting, when the realisation struck her, that if she did not urge him to go down to the crowds to see them off before the soldiers arrived to strike them down, then he would not find himself in any danger. It was Margaret who placed him in danger, thought she, and with a sigh of relief, she looked back on the crowed with a renewed confidence, for the savages were nothing to her, if she had not to fear for Mr Thornton.

'Good God!' cried he, gaping at the window and immediately stealing her attention. 'They are going for the mill door!' She turned her gaze to that feeble door, which surely could not withstand the masses, if that great oak gate had ceded defeat before it. She was caught by the horrifying realisation that she could not stand idle. She could not - as Margaret had been unable - stand by and watch these maddened Milton men attack the innocent Irishmen, but nor would she goad Mr Thornton into placing himself in danger. She watched, in turmoil, as the crowds swept towards the mill door with ominous intent, and before she could re-consider her purpose, she stole from the room.

Mr Thornton watched her flee, and thought her overcome - retreating upstairs as the other ladies had, but then he heard the groan of the door to the mill house, grinding as it was displaced, and a rush of unhindered voices struck at him, as the front door was opened, before quickly being pulled closed. He pressed his face anxiously against the window, desperately trying to understand what he had heard, and felt himself nearly crumple to the floor, as a grey dress darted out amongst the crowds.

'Mother!' cried he, his voice a deep, unearthly scream. 'Mother!' He sprang from the room, meeting his faithful mother at the foot of the stairs. 'Miss Darrow has seen fit to go outside. I must go after her. Bar the door behind me, Mother!' And he was gone.

Isabel darted in amongst the savage rabble, unheeded as a faceless female of no import. She stole quickly to the mill door, no one seeking to impede her, not realising she was not one of their own. There, she flung herself flat against the wooden door, and formed a barrier of her body. Those closest to her paused in their pursuit of admittance, and seemed to second-guess her purpose. She glared back at them defiantly, a dark scowl upon her brow and she roared out at them in passion.

'Stand aside! Your argument is not with the Irish. They seek only employment so that they may feed their families. It is not the Irish with which you quarrel.'

'They steal th' food from our childer's mouths!' came a defiant yell.

'They are people like you, sir; starving and in wont of employment. You would strike them for it; see them harmed through acts of violence?' dared Isabel. But the crowd was impassioned beyond reason, and the faces before her bubbled with a fierce thirst for blood, and they would not listen to reason.

'They take our place. We do what we must!' roared a whiskered, nameless face.

'I shall not permit you! You must come past me if you wish to harm the Irish!' shouted Isabel, in defiance. The grown men paused to reconsider. They did not know the lass; her dress was not of their kind, but yet she did not look quite the lady. They were suddenly unsure. But the young ones - the ones who saw the riot as good sport, the savage ones who had not outgrown the play of warriors - felt no such hesitation, and one lunged at her, attempting to thrust her aside. She was astute; she was quick, and saw the grappling hands looming towards her. She pulled back her hand and slammed a tight fist into the youth's face, knocking him cold to the floor. Silence engulfed all about her, as they looked - blinkingly - from the felled lad, to the ballsy young miss who had thought to strike a man. With the crowd still paused in question, the felled lad's friend struck out - a fist flailing through the air - but it was dodged, the arm caught up in an iron grip, and then twisted and rent backward, a cry of pain tearing from the lad's lips. He struggled against her hold, and as he did so, she brought up her knee, burying in into his stomach; the wind rent from his lungs, until he, too, crumpled to the ground.

Eyes enflamed, Isabel scowled back at the crowd, daring them to come at her, but the sight of the two felled lads provoked the crowd and stole away their reticence, and they loomed upon her in one movement. She tensed against the onslaught, knowing she could not fend off so many, when she felt a scolding grip clasp about her shoulders and bodily lift her from her defence of the mill door. She struggled against the iron hold, but then caught a dash of dark hair. She felt the very height of the man, and gasped against his biting touch; the cologne of Mr Thornton filling her lungs.

'You have no place out here!' thundered Mr Thornton, hauling her aside and attempting to see her back to the mill house, but he was the target they all clamoured for, and now they had his scent. A stone was thrown and struck him about the head, felling him with a single blow. Isabel was dropped from his protective hold and fell upon her knees as she watched the giant smitten to the dust. The savages swelled upon him, and she saw before her a barrage of boots as they loomed forward to strike at his inert body.

'No!' cried she, the word tearing from her lips in a wail of despair, and she launched herself upon him, smothering his body with her own. Her arms came swiftly up, shrouding his head from any attempted blow, and she used her torso to absorb the strike of feet which had already been launched and could not be drawn back in time. They stuck, and as pain pattered into her body, she screwed shut her eyes and clenched her teeth against the bite. A gasp was rent from her lips and she could almost count each blow as more rained down upon her; the crowd unthinking, unseeing, as it was swept up in its bloody excitement. Hands now tore at her back; she felt the cruel pull of her hair - her scalp burning in protest - and it was only then, as her cocoa locks - flecked with golden honey - fell loose about her shoulders, when a wary voice called out her rescue.

'That's a lass! You're set upon a lass!' called an older man, with a roughened voice, and the masses looked one by one, as they heard the warning. The mob about the two battered bodies thinned with each dawning realisation, and as each rioter lost their passion, they lowered their heads in shame, for there - now clearly visible to all, was the smitten Master, with a small and bloodied form lying upon him. A whistle sounded - the call of the soldiers - and anxious gazes met, as the mobsters quickly began to flee; none wanting to be found beside the fallen magistrate and the battered lass.