As they came in sight of the house a servant
was holding Sedgwick's gray by the bridle before the gate. Fearing
that their prey might yet escape them, the crowd burst into a run,
brandishing cudgels, guns and pitchforks, and yelling, "Kill him,"
"Hang him," "Shoot him." They were not fifty yards away when Sedgwick
came out and deliberately mounted his horse. The beast was a good one,
and the distance was enough to make his rider's escape perfectly
secure. But instead of galloping off, Sedgwick turned his horse's head
toward the onrushing, hooting multitude, and rode at a gentle trot
directly toward them. It seemed like madness, but the effect fully
justified the cool daring that had prompted the action. With the first
forward step of the animal, the moment the rider's intention became
evident, the mob stopped dead, and the uproar of execrations gave
place to a silence of perfect astonishment, in which you could have
heard the swish of a bird's wing. As the horse's head touched the line
of men, they slunk aside as if they knew not what they did, their eyes
falling abashed before Sedgwick's quiet glance and air, as devoid of a
trace of fear as it was of ostentatious defiance.
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