But there was no delay in the execution of the order. The men came to “parade rest” and drew their bayonets from their scabbards. The click sounded sharp and ominous as the springs caught on the muzzles of the rifle barrels. Then, with shining blades fixed, the “order arms” was promptly resumed. Lieutenant McCormack turned again to face the ringleaders. The smiles had vanished from their faces, their eyes were filled with a surprise that was not unmixed with indignation. “In answer to your request,” said the lieutenant, “I will say that I decline to withdraw my troops. But I demand that you, who seem to be leaders of this crowd, take your men back at once along the street by which they came. Otherwise I shall clear the plaza at the point of the bayonet.” His voice, rising as he proceeded, rang out at the last with a clearness and precision that left no room for doubt as to the meaning of his words. Against all military precedent and custom the men of Company E, with almost a single voice, gave vent to a great shout of approval. The reaction was so great, the relief was so tremendous, that a week in the guard-house would scarcely have been sufficient to repress this exuberant expression of their feeling. The faces of the leaders of the mob blazed with wrath, and their eyes shot fire. They had been mistaken in their man. It was Gabriel who now spoke up. “And is it,” he cried angrily, the words tumbling from his bearded lips, “that we are deceived? Are you also traitor? Judas? Hound? I curse you! I defy your guns!” His face was distorted with rage. His whole body was writhing with ungovernable passion. “See!” he shrieked, “I despise your capitalist flag! I spit upon it! I destroy it!” As he spoke he drew from his waistcoat pocket a big clasp-knife, opened the blade, and made a lunge toward the flagstaff with the evident purpose of slashing the halyards and dropping the flag to be trampled on. Quick and dextrous as he was, the first lieutenant of Company E was quicker. In a blaze of patriotic wrath he cleared the space between him and Gabriel, and brought the butt of his pistol crashing down upon the head of the would-be desecrator of the flag. The knife dropped from the man’s hand and went clattering to the pavement, and he, himself, swaying, staggering for a moment, fell, bleeding and unconscious, at the foot of the staff he would have despoiled. If the cheer that had greeted McCormack’s ultimatum to the leader of the mob had been whole-souled and exuberant, the yell that came now from the throats of half a hundred khaki-clad enthusiasts was vociferous and overwhelming. At last they had a soldier and a patriot for a leader, and they wanted the world to know it. Barriscale alone was displeased and dissatisfied. “It was a reckless thing to do,” he shouted. “Those fellows over there will see red now. Bayonets are no use. We’ve got to shoot into ’em or they’ll murder us. Look at ’em!”