4, 5, 6, 7), a man whose death had been looked for through some days,
and who actually _did_ die on the following day, rose, armed himself
with a sword, and descended in his shirt into the street. The chance was a
good one, and the mob were made aware of it, for catching the wolfish dog
in the high noon and carnival of his bloody revels--in the very centre of
his own shambles. For a moment the mob was self-baffled by its own numbers
and its own fury. But even that fury felt the call for self-control. It
was evident that the massy street-door must be driven in, since there was
no longer any living person to co-operate with their efforts from within,
excepting only a female child. Crowbars dexterously applied in one minute
threw the door out of hangings, and the people entered like a torrent. It
may be guessed with what fret and irritation to their consuming fury, a
signal of pause and absolute silence was made by a person of local
importance. In the hope of receiving some useful communication, the mob
became silent. 'Now listen,' said the man of authority, 'and we shall
learn whether he is above-stairs or below.' Immediately a noise was heard
as if of some one forcing windows, and clearly the sound came from a
bedroom above. Yes, the fact was apparent that the murderer was even yet
in the house: he had been caught in a trap. Not having made himself
familiar with the details of Williamson's house, to all appearance he had
suddenly become a prisoner in one of the upper rooms.
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