Kranich hesitated, and studied his questioner’s face for a moment before replying. He was debating in his mind whether he should evade the real issue, or whether he should depend upon the friendly sympathy and anticipated acquiescence of the first lieutenant, and disclose the full purpose of the marchers. He made a quick decision, and chose the latter course as likely to lead to quicker and more satisfactory results. “No,” he replied, “we intend to take possession of this plant before us, in behalf of the men who have a right to work there and to receive full compensation for their toil.” “I see. And what is it that you wish me to do?” Again the mild, acquiescent, deprecatory manner, with its intimation of a truculent yielding to the will of the mob. The faces of the Guardsmen were a study in the expression of anxious doubt and increasing dismay. Brownell felt chills creeping down his back. The time had come when he, too, staunchest supporter and firmest friend of Halpert McCormack, had to keep tight grip on his faith in him in order to prevent it from sinking out of sight. Barriscale was in a tumult of wrath. That McCormack should even consent to parley with the leaders of the mob was unbelievable and unendurable. “Bullets, not words,” he said in a hoarse whisper to the men at his left. “That’s what they want, bullets, not words!” Kranich did not reply directly to the lieutenant’s last question. He gesticulated slightly, assumed an oratorical manner, and said: “The time has come for you to prove by your works your declared faith in the righteousness of the proletarian movement.” “What is it that you wish me to do?” The question was repeated, perhaps a little more firmly, a little more distinctly than before, and it now brought a definite answer. “We wish you to withdraw your troops from the plaza. The sight of them excites and angers my followers. If they remain here I shall not be responsible for the consequences.” “I understand.” Lieutenant McCormack turned and faced his company. It was apparent that he was about to yield to the demand of the captains of the mob and give such orders to his company as would lead to its immediate withdrawal. Kranich and Gabriel looked at each other and smiled with satisfaction. The men in the ranks grew sick at heart. Brownell clutched the butt of his pistol in sheer desperation. Barriscale snatched his rifle up from the pavement and started once more to leave the ranks, but was checked by the command that now issued from the lips of the first lieutenant. “Fix bayonet!” The first sergeant dropped back into his place. Brownell’s heart leaped in his breast. The Guardsmen caught their breaths and wondered and were happy.