Next in the line is a smooth-faced portly man, clad in fine broadcloth, unmistakably a Catholic Priest; next is a man of soldierly bearing whose uniform and shoulder-straps proclaim him to be the commander of the national guard of the State; close beside the guardsman is the stalwart superintendent of the city police. For a few minutes only, these men were spell-bound by the terrible scenes before them. A mob of ragged wild-eyed men and women are straggling along the street, some wearing the red caps of Anarchy, firing revolvers at the windows of the houses and at every well-dressed person in sight, some waved strange banners labelled "Bread or blood," "Down with the rich," "Shoot the soldiers"; many blood-red flags are waved with demoniacal yells. Directly in front of this howling mob is massed the First Corps of Cadets, and the 9th Regiment of Irish militia; soldiers are seen falling in the ranks, and blood crimsoned the snow, alarm bells are clanging, flames are bursting from the elegant buildings, tremendous explosions are heard which seemed to shake the foundations of the city. Ferocious men and women are seen looting the stores, drinking plundered liquors; the off-scouring of all nations are pillaging, burning, murdering; the spirit of hell seems in full control on this natal day of the Prince of Peace. Still the national guard did not fire. "Father," cried the Governor, "will the 9th Regiment kill their own brothers if ordered to shoot?" "My children will obey orders, sir," quietly replied the priest. "Then in heaven's name, General, Marconi the order; if we wait longer everything is ruined." The Mayor's eyes flashed fire; he seemed about to countermand--the priest lifted his hand, "Brother, we must," he said--the Mayor hesitated; he saw many of his own constituents among the rioters; his face was like that of a corpse, then, "Order," he gasped. The General touched the keys before him, the Colonel of the 9th flinched as if struck by a bullet, then a quick command, the clear notes of the bugle sounded, the Irish soldiers hesitated, glanced at the cupola; the priest with outstretched arms confirmed the mandate; the repeating rifles were levelled, and crash upon crash went the volleys of bullets into the bosoms of the mob. Again pealed the bugle note, and quick as a flash forward rushed the dandy Cadets and the Irish soldiers, shoulder to shoulder in a wild bayonet charge. Screams, groans and curses rend the air, scores of the rioters are weltering in their gore, the rest broke, fled, leaving the streets strewn with the dead and wounded. "Marconi the hospitals," said the Governor; and in a trice the ambulances are bearing away the sufferers to be tenderly cared for, as if they were the best, instead of the worst of the human race.