The temper of the vast multitude changed in an instant. Shrieks and yells of anger filled the air, and for many minutes the crowd gave way to demonstrations of rage and indignation. All at once there walked to the front of the central platform a tall, angular woman dressed in a gown of plain black stuff. Her features were unprepossessing, to the verge of ugliness, but a wealth of white hair crowned a low brow, surmounting eyes of fierce blue. As she stretched forth a long arm, the multitude hushed to silence, for they recognized the renowned female agitator, Lucy Passmore. “Friends, brethren, men,” said she, in a voice whose magnetic quality vibrated to the farthest edges of the crowd, “it seems that it is the malignant will of one man which savagely condemns thousands to suffering and starvation. If the rattlesnake is coiled for ye, will ye strike first or wait for him to strike? If the wolf is waiting upon your doorstep, will you feed to him the babe he is seeking or will ye give him the knife to the hilt in his hot throat? The death of Lorin French would end this struggle, and your wives would cease to weep and your children to cry with hunger. Men, since God has so far forgotten you as to suffer this devil to live so long, why do you not remedy God’s forgetfulness? Are you ready to march now or do you want an old woman to lead you?” A yell arose from the surging crowd, as, with one mind, thousands comprehended and were ready to act upon the suggestions of Lucy Passmore. Most of the men had long before furnished themselves with arms of some sort, and their lodge organizations had provided them with elected leaders, who usually attended the sand-lot meetings. As if by magic they formed themselves into companies and battalions and marched, an orderly and almost an organized army, forth from the sand lots, and down to the building No. 1099 Market Street, which they speedily surrounded. The iron shutters of the upper story were at once closed, and the muzzles of rifles pushed through loopholes previously prepared for such purpose. An attempt was made from the inside to close the iron gate in front of the main staircase, but the mob surged past the guard, took possession of the lower hall, and started up the stairs. They were met at the top, just below the first landing, by twenty Pinkerton men standing upon the top five steps—four on each step—who, after vainly warning the ascending crowd to desist, at last lowered the muzzles of their Winchesters, and opened a murderous fusillade, which covered the stairs with dead and dying.