Ferrol's heavy walking-stick was in his right hand. "Let go my arm-
quick!" he said quietly.

He was no coward, and these people were, and he knew it. The habitant
drew back.

"Get off the platform," he said with quiet menace.

He turned quickly to the crowd, for some had sprung towards the platform
to pull him off. Raising his voice, he said:

"Stand back, and hear what I've got to say. You're a hundred to one.
You can probably kill me; but before you do that I shall kill three or
four of you. I've had to do with rioters before. You little handful of
people here--little more than half a million--imagine that you can defeat
thirty-five millions, with an army of half a million, a hundred battle-
ships, ten thousand cannon and a million rifles. Come now, don't be
fools. The Governor alone up there in Montreal has enough men to drive
you all into the hills of Maine in a week. You think you've got the
start of Colborne? Why, he has known every movement of Papineau and your
rebels for the last two months. You can bluster and riot to-day, but
look out for to-morrow. I am the only Englishman here among you. Kill
me; but watch what your end will be! For every hair of my head there
will be one less habitant in this province. You haul down the British
flag, and string up your tricolour in this British village while there is
one Britisher to say, 'Put up that flag again!'--You fools!"

He suddenly gave the rope a pull, and the flag ran up half-way; but as
he did so a stone was thrown. It flew past his head, grazing his temple.
A sharp point lacerated the flesh, and the blood flowed down his cheek.