“The mob there won, and the mob here know it. In my opinion,” Brereton continued, “conciliation is our only card, if we do not want to see a revolution.” “Hang your conciliation! Shoot, I say!” “What do you think, Mr. Vaughan?” “I think with you, Colonel Brereton,” Vaughan answered, “that the only way to avoid such a crisis as has befallen France is to pass the Bill, and to set the Constitution on a wider basis by enlisting as large a number as possible in its defence.” “Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” from Flixton. “On the other hand,” Vaughan continued, “I would put down the beginnings of disorder with a strong hand. I would allow no intimidation, no violence. The Bill should be passed by argument.” “Argument? Why, d——n me, intimidation is your argument!” the Honourable Bob struck in, with more acuteness than he commonly evinced. “Pass the Bill or we’ll loose the dog! At ’em, Mob, good dog! At ’em! That’s your argument!” triumphantly. “But I’ll be back in a minute.” And he left them. Vaughan laughed. Brereton, however, seemed to be unable to take the matter lightly. “Do you really mean, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, “that if there were trouble, here, for instance, you would not hesitate to give the order to fire?” “Certainly, sir, if it could not be put down with the cold steel.” The Colonel shook his head despondently. “I don’t think I could,” he said. “I don’t think I could. You have not seen war, and I have. And it is a fearful thing. Bad enough abroad, infinitely worse here. The first shot—think, Mr. Vaughan, of what it might be the beginning! What hundreds and thousands of lives might hang upon it! How many scores of innocent men shot down, of daughters made fatherless!” He shuddered. “And to give such an order on your own responsibility, when the first volley might be the signal for a civil war, and twenty-four hours might see a dozen counties in a blaze! It is horrible to think of! Too horrible! It’s too much for one man’s shoulders! Flixton would do it—he sees no farther than his nose! But you and I, Mr. Vaughan—and on one’s own judgment, which might be utterly, fatally wrong! My God, no!” “Yet there must be a point,” Vaughan replied, “at which such an order becomes necessary; becomes mercy!” “Ay,” Brereton answered eagerly; “but who is to say when that point is reached; and that peaceful methods can do no more? Or, granted that they can do no more, that provocation once given, your force is sufficient to prevent a massacre! A massacre in such a place as this!” Vaughan saw that the idea had taken possession of the other’s mind, and, aware that he had distinguished himself more than once on foreign service, he wondered. It was not his affair, however; and “Let us hope that the occasion may not arise,” he said politely. “God grant it!” Brereton replied. And then again, to himself and more fervently, “God grant it!” he muttered. The shadow lay darker on his face.