It was that organizer of the strikers whom Luke had seen in Forbes’s office when the employees made their last appeal to Forbes. It was the man Forbes had ignored. With infinite slowness, against infinite opposition, the rescuer made way for them. Grumbling, growling, threatening, the crowd fell back. It menaced, it cursed, it hurled ribald jokes; but it fell back before the leader that it no longer obeyed in anything else, until he, followed by Luke with Betty in his arms, came to the line of soldiers at the battered factory door. Luke swayed a little. Facciolati stepped up and tried to steady him, but he tossed Facciolati away. Luke turned to the organizer. "Won’t you come inside?" he panted. The man shook his head. "I’m—I can’t tell you how much I owe you for this," said Luke. "Oh, you go to Hell," said the man. §7. Inside the factory, Luke would not waste a glance on the strike-breakers that gathered, open-mouthed, around him. "Get away," he ordered. "I’m taking her to the upper office. Nobody is to disturb her there. You understand? Nobody." §8. During all that frightful progress back through the mob, she had lain in his arms silent, her eyes closed. Only now, when he brought her to the upper office, banged the door behind them and put her in an arm-chair, which he kicked the length of the room in order to place her as far as might be from the window, did she look at him. "I didn’t faint," she said. "I only pretended. I thought that was safest." He had dropped to his knees beside her and had begun to chafe her hands. He was unconscious of the renewed din outside. Thus alone with her, he was thinking only how much he wanted her. She was leaning far back in the chair. The rays of the street-lamp were the only light in the room, and they made her face seem as peaceful as the faces of the dead. When she opened her eyes, her eyes were luminous. "You’re safe," she continued. "You’re safe, aren’t you?" He kissed her hand hotly. "You!" he said. "I’m all right. But you?" She stood up, smiling. "Quite." He rose also. "The brutes! the beasts! I’d like to—I’ll do it, too!" He had stepped into the light. His shirt was torn, his hair dank. Blood caked over the cut on his forehead, and his jaws were red with the blood of the man whose hand he had bitten. "Luke! You _are_ hurt!" She came toward him. "No, I’m not," he persisted, but he let her fingers touch the wound on his head, and her fingers thrilled him. "Luke," she said, when she had convinced herself that the cut was superficial, "I’m glad it was you." "That came for you?" "Yes." "I didn’t do much. I was nearly the death of you. For a minute I thought it was death. That other fellow’s the one you have to thank." "Anyhow, I thank you." She pressed his hand. A shout came from the mob. It brought him back to material concerns. "How did you come to this part of town?" She had complete command of herself. "Can’t you guess?" she asked.