’Twas enough.  The woman beside her looked and began to shake her fist, seized by the same frenzy; her neighbour caught up her cry, her neighbour hers; a sodden-faced thief broke into a howling laugh, another followed him, the madness spread from side to side, and in a moment the big foul crowd surged about the coaches, shrieking blasphemies and obscenities, shaking fists, howling cries of “Shame!” and threats of vengeance.

“Turn over the coaches!  Drag them out!  Tear their finery from them!  Stuff their mincing mouths with mud!” rose all about them.

The servants were dragged from their seats and hauled from side to side, their liveries were in ribbands, their terrified faces, ghastly with terror and streaming with blood, might be seen one moment in one place, the next in another, sometimes they seemed down on the ground.  The crowd roared with rage and laughter at their cries.  One lady swooned with terror, one or two crouched on the floor of the coach; the dandies gesticulated and called for help.

“They will kill us! they will kill us!” screamed the finest beau among them.  “The watch! the watch!  The constables!”

“’Tis worse than the Mohocks,” cried another, but his hand so shook he could not have drawn his sword if he had dared.

The next instant the glass of the first coach was smashed and its door beaten open.  A burly fellow seized upon a shrieking beauty and dragged her forth laughing, dealing her gallant a mighty clout on the face as he caught her.  Blood spouted from the poor gentleman’s delicate aquiline nose, and the mob danced and yelled.

“Drag ’em all out!” was roared by the sodden-faced thief.  “The women to the women and the men to the men, and then change about.”  The creatures were like wild beasts, and their prey would have been torn to pieces, but at that moment, from a fellow at the edge of the crowd broke a startled oath.

Someone had made way to him and laid a strong hand on his shoulder, and there was that in his cry which made those nearest turn.

A tall figure in black draperies stood towering above him, and in truth above all the rest of the crowd.  ’Twas a woman, and she called out to the mad creatures about her in command.

“Fools!” she cried; “have a care.  Do you want to swing at a rope’s end yourselves?” ’Twas a fierce voice, the voice of a brave creature who feared none of them; though ’twas a rich voice and a woman’s, and so rang with authority that it actually checked the tempest for a moment and made the leaders turn to look.

She made her way nearer and threw back her hood from her face.

“I am Clorinda Mertoun, who is Duchess of Osmonde,” she cried to them.  “There are many of you know me.  Call back your senses, and hearken to what I say.”

The ladies afterwards in describing the scene used to quake as they tried to paint this moment.

“There was a cry that was like a low howl,” they said, “as if beasts were baffled and robbed of their prey.  Some of them knew her and some did not, but they all stood and stared.  Good Lord! ’twas her great black eyes that held them; but I shall be affrighted when I think of her, till my dying day.”