Father Temple had slowly forced his way along the outer edge of the quivering throng and reached the centre of the square, where in summer a fountain babbled. Some one behind grasped his cassock. "You are a priest? For the love of God, come to a dying man! Come back." Death had sounded a temporary truce, and for some moments only whispers passed trembling lips, but the strikers still guarded the rails. Mr. Cathcart wiped off the dust thrown into his face by the explosion, bared his grey head, and lifted his hand: "Men, don't you think you have worked mischief enough for one night? Eight dead, and only God knows how many wounded! That is an ugly bill the law will surely make you pay. You heard those three shots fired into the air? It was a signal for the armory; the troops are now coming. Who will feed your babies when you are bayonetted?" A mounted policeman spurred his horse close to the president. "The soldiers are hurrying down." The leaders recognized the futility of continued resistance, and, as they slowly fell back from the track the police were in undisputed control of the cars when the hurrying line of soldiers reached the square. Father Temple and his unknown guide paused beside a stretcher. Two men wearing the Red Cross badge bent over it. "Stand back; here is a priest." Both rose, and pointed to the sheet covering a motionless figure. "Too late. He is dead." Then one added, as he touched Father Temple's sleeve: "You might be of use over yonder, where a woman is badly hurt. They are waiting for an ambulance to move her." When Max Harlberg ordered the retreat of the strikers and jumped from the roof of the car to the pavement, he caught sight of a huddled mass on the step near the motor controller, and simultaneously he and Mr. Cathcart approached the spot. Mrs. Dane had sunk down in a sitting posture on the step, and her head rested against the shattered edge of the dashboard, her face tilted skyward, where two stars blinked feebly through thinning snow flakes. Blood dripped from the right shoulder, and behind one ear a red stream dyed her golden braids, but the blue eyes were open, and her limp hands lay in the crimson pool deepening in her lap, where the waterproof cloak held it. "My God, it is my typewriter! Hazleton, Hazleton! Telephone for an ambulance. Hurry! I knew she was mixed up in this deviltry, but didn't think she would actually come to the front and take a hand." "She did not. She came here hunting Bowen, whose family was burned out to-night, and she had taken some of them to her room. His wife has spasms when she is worried, and was screaming for him, so Mrs. Dane was begging him to go back with her. She wanted a peaceable strike--urged us not to begin any fight--and she snatched a pistol out of my hand. Can't you speak to me, Mrs. Dane? Where are you hurt worst?" Harlberg stooped to lift her, but Cathcart held him back.