ith a long, white beard, who
was calling out at the policemen: "Ah, yes! Glup the strikerss--gif
it to them! Why don't you co and glup the bresidents that insoalt
your lawss, and gick your Boart of Arpidration out-of-toors? Glup the
strikerss--they cot no friendts! They cot no money to pribe you, to
dreat you!"

The officer lifted his club, and the old man threw his left arm up to
shield his head. Conrad recognized Zindau, and now he saw the empty
sleeve dangle in the air over the stump of his wrist. He heard a shot in
that turmoil beside the car, and something seemed to strike him in the
breast. He was going to say to the policeman: "Don't strike him! He's an
old soldier! You see he has no hand!" but he could not speak, he could
not move his tongue. The policeman stood there; he saw his face: it
was not bad, not cruel; it was like the face of a statue, fixed,
perdurable--a mere image of irresponsible and involuntary authority.
Then Conrad fell forward, pierced through the heart by that shot fired
from the car.

March heard the shot as he scrambled out of his car, and at the same
moment he saw Lindau drop under the club of the policeman, who left him
where he fell and joined the rest of the squad in pursuing the rioters.
The fighting round the car in the avenue ceased; the driver whipped his
horses into a gallop, and the place was left empty.

March would have liked to run; he thought how his wife had implored him
to keep away from the rioting; but he could not have left Lindau lying
there if he would. Something stronger than his will drew him to the
spot, and there he saw Conrad, dead beside the old man.

VI.

In the cares which Mrs. March shared with her husband that night she was
supported partly by principle, but mainly by the potent excitement which
bewildered Conrad's family and took all reality from what had happened.
It was nearly midnight when the Marches left them and walked away toward
the Elevated station with Fulkerson. Everything had been done, by
that time, that could be done; and Fulkerson was not without that
satisfaction in the business-like despatch of all the details which
attends each step in such an affair and helps to make death tolerable
even to the most sorely stricken. We are creatures of the moment; we
live from one little space to another; and only one interest at a time
fills these. Fulkerson was cheerful when they got into the street,
almost gay; and Mrs. March experienced a reb