Braith dug his hands into the pockets of his velveteens, and shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’ve got some work to do. So have you, Rex.” “Come on, we’re off,” shouted Thaxton from the stairway. Clifford seized Gethryn’s arm, Elliott and Rhodes crowded on behind. A small earthquake shock followed as the crowd of students launched itself down the stairs. “Braith doesn’t approve of my cutting the atelier so often,” said Gethryn, “and he’s right. I ought to have stayed.” “Reggy going to back out?” cooed Clifford. “No,” said Rex. “Here’s Rhodes with a cab.” “It’s too hot to walk,” gasped Rhodes. “I secured this. It was all I could get. Pile in.” Rex sprang up beside the driver. “Allons!” he cried, “to the Obelisk!” “But, monsieur—” expostulated the cabby, “it is today the revolution. I dare not.” “Go on, I tell you,” roared Rhodes. “Clifford, take his reins away if he refuses.” Clifford made a snatch at them, but was repulsed by the indignant cabby. “Go on, do you hear?” shouted the Colossus. The cabman looked at Gethryn. “Go on!” laughed Rex, “there is no danger.” Jehu lifted his shoulders to the level of his shiny hat, and giving the reins a jerk, muttered, “Crazy English!—Heu—heu—Cocotte!” In twenty minutes they had arrived at the bridge opposite the Palais Bourbon. “By Jove!” said Gethryn, “look at that crowd! The Place de la Concorde is black with them!” The cab stopped with a jolt. Half a dozen policemen stepped into the street. Two seized the horses’ heads. “The bridge is forbidden to vehicles, gentlemen,” they said, courteously. “To cross, one must descend.” Clifford began to argue, but Elliott stopped him. “It’s only a step,” said he, paying the relieved cabby. “Come ahead!” In a moment they were across the bridge and pushing into the crowd, single file. “What a lot of troops and police!” said Elliott, panting as he elbowed his way through the dense masses. “I tell you, the mob are bent on mischief.” The Place de la Concorde was packed and jammed with struggling, surging humanity. Pushed and crowded up to the second fountain, clinging in bunches to the Obelisk, overrunning the first fountain, and covering the pedestals of the “Cities of France,” it heaved, shifted, undulated like clusters of swarming ants. In the open space about the second fountain was the Prefect of the Seine, surrounded by a staff of officers. He looked worn and anxious as he stood mopping the perspiration from his neck and glancing nervously at his men, who were slowly and gently rolling back the mob. On the bridge a battalion of red-legged soldiers lounged, leaning on their rifles. To the right were long lines of cavalry in shining helmets and cuirasses. The men sat motionless in their saddles, their armor striking white fire in the fierce glow of the midday sun. Ever and anon the faint flutter of a distant bugle announced the approach of more regiments.