resence was made visible by the
armed soldiers drawn up in lines in the corridors, and by the officers
grouped in the entrances to the House itself. The Oligarchy was about
to strike. Ernest was speaking. He was describing the sufferings of
the unemployed, as if with the wild idea of in some way touching their
hearts and consciences; but the Republican and Democratic members
sneered and jeered at him, and there was uproar and confusion. Ernest
abruptly changed front.

"I know nothing that I may say can influence you," he said. "You have no
souls to be influenced. You are spineless, flaccid things. You pompously
call yourselves Republicans and Democrats. There is no Republican Party.
There is no Democratic Party. There are no Republicans nor Democrats in
this House. You are lick-spittlers and panderers, the creatures of the
Plutocracy. You talk verbosely in antiquated terminology of your love
of liberty, and all the while you wear the scarlet livery of the Iron
Heel."

Here the shouting and the cries of "Order! order!" drowned his voice,
and he stood disdainfully till the din had somewhat subsided. He waved
his hand to include all of them, turned to his own comrades, and said:

"Listen to the bellowing of the well-fed beasts."

Pandemonium broke out again. The Speaker rapped for order and glanced
expectantly at the officers in the doorways. There were cries of
"Sedition!" and a great, rotund New York member began shouting
"Anarchist!" at Ernest. And Ernest was not pleasant to look at. Every
fighting fibre of him was quivering, and his face was the face of a
fighting animal, withal he was cool and collected.

"Remember," he said, in a voice that made itself heard above the din,
"that as you show mercy now to the proletariat, some day will that same
proletariat show mercy to you."

The cries of "Sedition!" and "Anarchist!" redoubled.

"I know that you will not vote for this bill," Ernest went on. "You have
received the command from your masters to vote against it. And yet you
call me anarchist. You, who have destroyed the government of the people,
and who shamelessly flaunt your scarlet shame in public places, call me
anarchist. I do not believe in hell-fire and brimstone; but in moments
like this I regret my unbelief. Nay, in moments like this I almost do
believe. Surely there must be a hell, for in no less place could it be
possible for you to receive punishment adequate to your crimes. So long
as you exist, ther