Zanti turned furiously upon him but the words that he would have spoken were for the moment held. The Procession was passing. The roar of cheering came up against the walls of the shop like waves against the rocks; the windows shook. There she was, the little Old Lady in her black bonnet, sitting smiling and bowing, and somewhere behind her a little dust had been blown into the air, had hung for a moment about her and then had once more settled down into the other dust from which it had come. That was all. In front of her were the Royal Personages, on every side of her her faithful subjects ... only a cloud of dust had given occasion for a surer sign of her people's devotion. That, at any rate, Oblotzky had done. The carriage passed. Mr. Zanti now faced Peter. “Peter--Boy--you must believe me. I did not know, believe me, I did not. They had talked and I had listened but there is so much talk and never anything is done. Peter, you must not go, you must not leave me. You would break my 'eart--” “All these years,” Peter said, “you have let me be here while you have deceived me and blinded me. I am going now and I pray to God that I may never see you again.” “No, Boy, listen. You must not go like this. 'Ave I not been good to you? 'Ave I ever made you do anything wrong? 'Ave I not always kept you out of these things? You are the only person zat I 'ave ever loved. You 'ave become my son to me. I am not wicked. I was not one of these men--these anarchists--but it is only that all my life I 'ave wanted adventure, what you call Ro-mance. And I 'ave found it 'ere, there--one place, anuzzer place. But it 'as never been wicked--I 'ave never 'armed a soul. What zat girl says it is not true--I would 'ave done all to stop it if I could. But you--if you leave me now, I am all alone. There is no one in the world for me--a poor old man--but if you will be with me I will show you wonderful things. “See,” he went on eagerly, almost breathlessly, “we 'ave been socialists 'ere, what you will. We 'ave talked and talked. It amuses me--to intrigue, to pretend, to 'ave games--one day it is Treason, another Brigands, another Travel--what you will. But never, never, never danger to a soul. Now only this morning did I 'ear that they were going to do this. Always it had been words before--but this morning I got a rumour. But it was only rumour. I 'ad not enough to be sure of my news. Stephen here and I--we could do nozzing--we 'ad no time--I did not know where Oblotzky was--this girl 'ere did not know--I could do nozzing--Peter, believe me, believe me--” The man was no scoundrel. It was plain enough as he stood there, his eyes simple as a child's, pleading still like a small boy. A minute ago Peter had hated him, now he crossed over and put his hand on his shoulder.