He would not look back. His last sight of her was of a woman standing erect, alert, comprehending, the revolver shining in her hand. Then, with the following Breil calling out that he must go to his own men at the rear, Luke ran down the stairs, opened the main door and, leaving it gaping behind him, plunged outside. §9. Coherent purpose he had none. All that he realized was this: here was a struggle; here was a final endeavor to destroy his property, which, however endangered by the trust, was almost his sole means of support. There would be no more chance given him for delay; there would be no further help from the police—the half-dozen sent that morning had disappeared—until help was too late; there was only the boyish soldiery. He would go to them, and he would fight. As he emerged upon the street, he saw the circle of light empty of the human mass that had lately swirled there. A resounding cacophony from the darkness, and dimly perceived objects moving a hundred yards and more away, told him that the rioters had withdrawn to the upturned coal wagon. At the moment of understanding this, he heard a rending staccato noise. The frightened Facciolati heard it, too. He was standing on the pavement by the door and had drawn up his men in a closer column before him. His bared sword was in his right hand. "What’s that?" asked Luke. "It’s the tongue of that coal wagon," gasped the Captain, "they’re rippin’ it off." "What? For a battering-ram? For this door?" The Italian nodded. "Yes. I heard someone yell for them to do it. Then they all ran over there." A terrible stillness fell. Behind the curtain of the night, the mob only hummed and shuffled its feet. "Well?" asked Luke. His eyes pierced Facciolati’s. His voice was pregnant with meaning. "What had I better do?" faltered the Captain. Before Luke could reply, a strident yell came from the invisible ranks of the mob: "Now then: come on! Burn their damned shop!" A thousand voices echoed: "Burn it! Burn it down!" The Captain turned to Luke. "You’ve got to stop them," said Luke. The din increased. "O my God!" said Facciolati. In Luke blazed up all the furnace of battle. He gripped the Captain’s collar and shook the man as if he were a frightened, disobedient child. "Give the order!" he commanded. He hated this boy. In a shrill, hysterical voice that cut the rising noise of the mob, Facciolati gave the preliminary order, and the rows of lads in khaki, standing on the curb, raised their black-blue rifles to their shoulders. "We won’t shoot!" he called into Luke’s ear. "We’ll only frighten ’em!" "Burn it——" From the street the cries were merged into a wordless roar. There was the wild rush of two thousand feet, and into the light burst the mob again: a long trotting column with the Red Flag swaying overhead, and in the midst five or six men bearing the wagon-tongue leveled like a lance.