"I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm coming!" There was a touch of humor in the cry; for it was like the voice of a showman advertising his wares to a pack of holiday-makers anxious to buy; and wherever he went pleasantness reigned, and an element of good temper and considerateness mingled itself with the crowd. "Oh! I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm coming!" Away he went on his disciplined errand of mercy, a man of kindliness, good counsel, and understanding, carrying out his orders in as human a way as was possible. "Now then! Now then! Now then! I'm coming. Oh, I'm coming!" The roaring multitude swallowed him; his cry grew faint, merged in the general din. By the gradual compression and movement of the multitude toward some fancied center the King had been borne a good many hundred yards from his original point. Presently he found himself in a large open space, with its low-railed inclosure guarded by police. Here the crowd was denser than ever and its sway harder to withstand. A woman's form was driven sharply against him. To avoid elbowing her off he offered the shelter of his arm; and she, finding herself up against something not immediately repellent, stayed to breathe. He saw the sweat pour from her skin, and as she panted in his arms she had the rank scent of a creature when it is hunted. Yet in her face there was no fear at all, only the white strain of physical exhaustion nearing its last point. "Are you hurt?" he asked. She shook her head. "The police; are they treating you properly?" "I have nothing to complain of," she said. "Won't you go home? You must see it is no use." She turned away as though she had not heard him, and threw herself once more against the barrier she was unable to overcome. Into the shock of it she went, with "nothing to complain of," forgetful of self, forgetful of all but her blind unreasoning determination to gain her end. Her passive yet battling form was borne away from him in the huge eddies of the crowd. "Hot work!" said a voice at his side; a little man, with keen, appetized face, ferreting this way and that, was hurriedly taking notes as though his life depended on it. The King looked at him in surprise, and wondered what it meant. "Got any news?" inquired the man, still scribbling at his notebook. "What kind of news?" "I'm not particular; anything suits me. I'm the Press." "The Press?" "Yes, reporter." And, as one proud of his great connection, he named the King's favorite journal. Never it is to be hoped to his dying day did that poor penny-a-liner know what a piece of news he allowed in that moment to slip by--news which to him would have meant almost a fortune; and here he was actually rubbing shoulders with it; and making no profit. "How many arrested?" he inquired. "I don't know." "Any of the leaders yet?" "I have not heard." Unprofitable company; the man moved away. They were separated by a fresh movement of the crowd.