e Oligarchy. Even as it was divined, the
Oligarchy was there--a fact established in blood, a stupendous and awful
reality. Nor even then, as the Everhard Manuscript well shows, was any
permanence attributed to the Iron Heel. Its overthrow was a matter of
a few short years, was the judgment of the revolutionists. It is true,
they realized that the Peasant Revolt was unplanned, and that the First
Revolt was premature; but they little realized that the Second Revolt,
planned and mature, was doomed to equal futility and more terrible
punishment.

It is apparent that Avis Everhard completed the Manuscript during the
last days of preparation for the Second Revolt; hence the fact that
there is no mention of the disastrous outcome of the Second Revolt.
It is quite clear that she intended the Manuscript for immediate
publication, as soon as the Iron Heel was overthrown, so that her
husband, so recently dead, should receive full credit for all that he
had ventured and accomplished. Then came the frightful crushing of the
Second Revolt, and it is probable that in the moment of danger, ere she
fled or was captured by the Mercenaries, she hid the Manuscript in the
hollow oak at Wake Robin Lodge.

Of Avis Everhard there is no further record. Undoubtedly she was
executed by the Mercenaries; and, as is well known, no record of such
executions was kept by the Iron Heel. But little did she realize, even
then, as she hid the Manuscript and prepared to flee, how terrible had
been the breakdown of the Second Revolt. Little did she realize that
the tortuous and distorted evolution of the next three centuries would
compel a Third Revolt and a Fourth Revolt, and many Revolts, all drowned
in seas of blood, ere the world-movement of labor should come into its
own. And little did she dream that for seven long centuries the tribute
of her love to Ernest Everhard would repose undisturbed in the heart of
the ancient oak of Wake Robin Lodge.

ANTHONY MEREDITH

Ardis,

November 27, 419 B.O.M.

THE IRON HEEL

CHAPTER I

MY EAGLE

The soft summer wind stirs the redwoods, and Wild-Water ripples sweet
cadences over its mossy stones. There are butterflies in the sunshine,
and from everywhere arises the drowsy hum of bees. It is so quiet and
peaceful, and I sit here, and ponder, and am restless. It is the quiet
that makes me restless. It seems unreal. All the world is quiet, but it
is the quiet before the storm. I strain my ears, an