Legs began to move in an impressive clock-work unison. Gradually the thousands of bayonets took motion, seemed to flow along like some strange stream of scintillating lights. * * * * * On the roof of the International Hotel the Governor, the Mayor, Major-General Sherman of the State Militia, Volney Howard and a little group of others watched the Vigilantes as they marched up Sacramento street. The Governor seemed calm enough; only the spasmodic puffs from his cigar betrayed agitation. Van Ness walked back and forth, cramming his hands into his breeches pockets and withdrawing them every ten seconds. Volney looked down with his usual sardonic smile but his eyes were bitter with hate. Sherman alone displayed the placidity of a soldier. "Look at the damned rabble!" exclaimed Howard. "They're dividing. Some are going up Pacific street to Kearney, some to Dupont and ... yes, a part of them on Stockton." "It's what you call an enfilading movement," said Sherman quietly. * * * * * In the county jail were Sheriff Scannell, Harrison his deputy, Marshal North, Billy Mulligan the jailor, and a small guard. Some of these watched proceedings from the roof, now and then descending to report to Scannell. Cora, in his cell, played solitaire and Casey made pretense of reading a book. Presently Scannell entered the room where Casey sat; it was not a cell nor had the door been locked since the withdrawal of the Vigilante guard. Casey looked up quickly. "What's the latest news from King?" "He's dying, so they say," retorted Scannell. "Dave," it was almost a whisper. "You've been to Broderick? Curse him, won't he turn his hand to help a friend?" "Easy, Billy," said the Sheriff. "Broderick's never been your friend; you know that well enough. Your boss, perhaps. But even so, he couldn't help you. No one can.... This town's gone mad." "What d'ye mean?" asked Casey in a frightened whisper. "Billy," spoke the Sheriff, "have a drink." He poured a liberal potion from a bottle standing on the table. Casey drained the glass, his eyes never leaving Scannell's. "Now," resumed the Sheriff, "listen, boy, and take it cool. THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU!" At first Casey made no reply. One might have thought he had not heard, save for the widening of his eyes. "You--you'll not let them take me, Dave?" he said, after a silence. "You'll fight?" Scannell's hand fell on the other's shoulder. "I've only thirty men; they're a hundred to one. They've a cannon." They looked at one another. Casey closed his fists and straightened slightly. "Give me a case-knife, Dave," he pleaded. "I'll not let them take me. I'll--" Silently, Scannell drew from his boot a knife in a leather sheath. Casey grasped it, feverishly, concealing it beneath his vest. "How soon?" he asked, "how soon?"