’Twas her big black eyes and the steady flame in them that held the poor frenzied fools, perchance as wolves are said to be held by the eye of man sometimes; but ’twas another thing, and on that she counted.  She looked round from one face to the other.

“You know me,” she said to one; “and you, and you, and you,” nodding at each.  “I can pick out a dozen of you who know me, and should find more if I marked you all.  How many here are my friends and servants?”

There was a strange hoarse chorus of sounds; they were the voices of women who were poor bedraggled drabs, men who were thieves and cutthroats, a few shrill voices of lads who were pickpockets and ripe for the gallows already.

“Ay, we know thee!  Ay, your Grace!  Ay!” they cried, some in half-sullen grunts, some as if half-affrighted, but all in the tones of creatures who suddenly began to submit to a thing they wondered at.

Then the woman who had begun the turmoil suddenly fell down on her knees and began to kiss her Grace’s garments with hysteric, choking sobs.

“She said thou wert the only creature had ever spoke her fair,” she cried.  “She said thou hadst saved her from going distraught when she lay in the gaol.  Just before the cart was driven away she cried out sobbing, ‘Oh, Lord!  Oh, your Grace!’ and they thought her praying, but I knew she prayed to thee.”

The Duchess put her hand on the woman’s greasy, foul shoulder and answered in a strange voice, nodding her head, her black brows knit, her red mouth drawn in.

“’Tis over now!” she said. “’Tis over and she quiet, and perchance ere this she has seen a fair thing.  Poor soul! poor soul!”

By this time the attacked party had gained strength to dare to move.  The pretty creature who had been first dragged forth from the coach uttered a shriek and fell on her knees, clutching at her rescuer’s robe.

“Oh, your Grace! your Grace!” she wept; “have mercy! have mercy!”

“Mercy!” said her Grace, looking down at the tower of powdered hair decked with gewgaws.  “Mercy!  Sure we all need it.  Your ladyship came—­for sport—­to see a woman hang?  I saw her in the gaol last night waiting her doom, which would come with the day’s dawning.  ’Twas not sport.  Had you been there with us, you would not have come here to-day.  Get up, my lady, and return to your coach.  Make way, there!” raising her voice.  “Let that poor fellow,” pointing to the ashen-faced coachman, “mount to his place.  Be less disturbed, Sir Charles,” to the trembling fop, “my friends will let you go free.”

And that they did, strangely enough, though ’twas not willingly, the victims knew, as they huddled into their places, shuddering, and were driven away, the crowd standing glaring after them, a man or so muttering blasphemies, though none made any movement to follow, but loitered about and cast glances at her Grace of Osmonde, who waited till the equipages were well out of sight and danger.