close the whereabouts of the body, and reluctantly he
obeys. Hounds falling upon their quarry could not exhibit more ferocity
than the mob as it pounces upon the corpse.

Gorman Purdy had been seated in his library when his last summons came.
He was attired in full evening dress. On his shirt bosom, over the
heart, is a spot of blood. It shows where the bullet had found its mark.

A hurried consultation is held. It is decided that the body be carried
to the Potter's field and thrown into the open grave that is kept for
paupers.

Three men pick up the body and start to leave the house.

All this while the impatience of the throng outside has found vent in
ribald jests.

"One dead millionaire is better than an army of workmen," jeers one man.

"He has come to life and has offered to arbitrate," sneers another.

"Bring him out!" is the incessant cry of the thousands.

And now the cortege appears. O'Neil and three committeemen carry the
body of Metz. They pass between an avenue of men, who give way
deferentially.

On reaching the Esplanade the pall-bearers pause. They face toward the
bridge and wait for the procession to form. Then the trio who carry--or
to be precise, drag the body of Purdy--emerge.

A great shout is given as the masses catch a glimpse of the body of the
man who in his lifetime was their unmerciful master.

Darkness has supplanted the twilight. Now the contrast between light and
shade is sharp. At intervals of fifty feet along the Esplanade, wrought
iron gothic flambeaux support powerful electric lights. Objects beyond
the immediate radius of the lights are indistinguishable. The windows of
all the palaces are all closed and barricaded. From across the river the
accustomed flare of the furnaces is missing. The fires are extinguished.

The uncouth countenances of the men and women can be studied in
intermittent flashes as they pass under the strong glare of the lights.
The utter absence of men and women of gentility makes the procession
seem like the invasion of the Huns into the Empire. Among the thousands
there are descendants of those very men who made the legions of Rome
flee in terror. The torch of progress is again in the hands of the
uncultured, and as history proves the race is to undergo another
evolution.

That it is to be effected by internecine revolution none doubts. The
march of carnage is on. Whither will it tend?

A leader of genius is wanted. The plastic emotions of the mult