the Circles almost every Woman's charge was
fatal and very many extracted their sting uninjured, ready for a second
slaughter. But no second blow was needed; the rabble of the Isosceles
did the rest of the business for themselves. Surprised, leader-less,
attacked in front by invisible foes, and finding egress cut off by the
Convicts behind them, they at once--after their manner--lost all
presence of mind, and raised the cry of "treachery." This sealed their
fate. Every Isosceles now saw and felt a foe in every other. In half
an hour not one of that vast multitude was living; and the fragments of
seven score thousand of the Criminal Class slain by one another's
angles attested the triumph of Order.

The Circles delayed not to push their victory to the uttermost. The
Working Men they spared but decimated. The Militia of the Equilaterals
was at once called out, and every Triangle suspected of Irregularity on
reasonable grounds, was destroyed by Court Martial, without the
formality of exact measurement by the Social Board. The homes of the
Military and Artisan classes were inspected in a course of visitation
extending through upwards of a year; and during that period every town,
village, and hamlet was systematically purged of that excess of the
lower orders which had been brought about by the neglect to pay the
tribute of Criminals to the Schools and University, and by the
violation of other natural Laws of the Constitution of Flatland. Thus
the balance of classes was again restored.

Needless to say that henceforth the use of Colour was abolished, and
its possession prohibited. Even the utterance of any word denoting
Colour, except by the Circles or by qualified scientific teachers, was
punished by a severe penalty. Only at our University in some of the
very highest and most esoteric classes--which I myself have never been
privileged to attend--it is understood that the sparing use of Colour
is still sanctioned for the purpose of illustrating some of the deeper
problems of mathematics. But of this I can only speak from hearsay.

Elsewhere in Flatland, Colour is now non-existent. The art of making
it is known to only one living person, the Chief Circle for the time
being; and by him it is handed down on his death-bed to none but his
Successor. One manufactory alone produces it; and, lest the secret
should be betrayed, the Workmen are annually consumed, and fresh ones
introduced. So great is the terror with