“It’s not fair!” he shouted. “You drove him into it. You’ve got no right to punish him!” He started forward, with arms raised as if to strike off the hands that were gripping and pushing the defamer of the flag. But men who were not able to reach Donatello could reach his would-be defender, and they did. They held him back and pulled down his arms, and the red-faced man shouted at him: “You hold your tongue, young fellow, or you’ll get a dose of the same medicine.” But the victim of over-zealous patriotism shot a grateful glance at the boy. “You have the red blood,” he cried; “I salute you!” Then, hatless, white-faced, outraged in soul and body, Donatello was propelled, not too gently, to the foot of the flagstaff. The young girls in white became so frightened at the spectacle that they forgot all rules of flag etiquette and dropped the colors to the ground and fled. And into the mass of red, white and blue bunting, caught up by some rescuer, the face of the man who had expressed a desire to spit upon the flag was rudely and violently thrust. He had been forced to his knees, his coat was half torn from his shoulders, and his mass of black hair was flung in disorder across his eyes. After his commendation of McCormack’s futile effort to protect him he did not again speak. He knew that words would have been not only useless but provocative no doubt of still greater violence. And when the crowd, burning with patriotic zeal, had worked its will with him, had made him, after its fashion, “kiss the flag,” they let him go. They not only let him go, they helped him on his way. They escorted him to the curb at the opening of the main street into the plaza, turned his face to the north, and, with one final thrust, sent him reeling up the walk. Having performed this patriotic task they returned to the foot of the flagstaff where renewed efforts on the part of the chairman of the committee had finally resulted in the freeing of the halyards, and “Old Glory,” hoisted by the girls in white, at last flung its emblematic folds out on the sustaining winds, and flashed its splendid colors in the sunlight of a perfect summer day. But one young American, Halpert McCormack by name, unconscious of any feeling of disloyalty to his country’s flag, believing nevertheless that it had been made the occasion and the cause of unnecessary and disgraceful persecution, turned away in disgust from the crowd that had been so rudely patriotic, and walked thoughtfully and regretfully toward his home. And one young radical of foreign birth and destructive purpose, son of Italian parents, outraged beyond expression at his treatment by a patriotic mob, sought his modest quarters to brood over his wrongs, and to lay plans and conceive plots that should in time satisfy his passionate desire for revenge. CHAPTER V