All but Sergeant Barriscale. He was now in flat revolt. He seemed bereft of his senses, wild with rage or fear or both. “I’ll not advance!” he yelled. “You boys are going to your death. They’ll murder you. I say again, load and fire!” He turned savagely toward the commanding officer. “Fool!” he cried, “to send your men to slaughter. I defy your orders!” Then, indeed, the first lieutenant lost grip on his patience. He thrust his pistol into its holster, reached out a right hand nerved with wrath, tore Barriscale’s loaded and unbayoneted rifle from his grasp, and tossed it to Manning sitting on the curb. With both hands he gripped the shoulders of the first sergeant and flung him about, face to the rear. “Report at the armory,” he cried, “and consider yourself under arrest till I return.” Then he swung about and followed his men into action. As the troops pressed on the howling and shrieking died down, and the firing of missiles ceased. The points of sixty bayonets were within two feet of a hundred throats grown tired with shouting. The front rank of rioters looked into the eyes of the men behind the guns and saw their own doom written there. They made a last wild attempt to thrust aside the glittering steel. The effort was futile. They only pierced and lacerated their hands and put their lives in jeopardy. Then valor gave way to discretion. They broke and fell back, crowding, pushing and trampling on their comrades in the rear. The line of bayonets lengthened till it swept the plaza and forced the last man of the riotous host into the street up which the marchers had come a short half hour before. Panic seized upon the throng, a mad desire in the breast of each one to protect himself, regardless of his fellows, against what appeared to be the murderous onslaught of the pitiless troops. There was a wild scramble, shrieks of terror, a futile effort to escape. But it was not until vacant lots, side streets unguarded by police, and at last the open country, had been reached that the defeated, scattered and terrorized invaders found safe asylum and a respite from their fears. So, crushed, humiliated and spiritless, bleeding from many superficial wounds, singly and in groups, the rioters found their way back to the city from which, in the early morning, they had come. Back, on the north side of the plaza, four persons stood or sat, watching, with vivid interest, the vanishing mob and the backs of the khaki-clad troops as they disappeared in the dust and distance down the main street leading to the south.