ty-nine co-workers, to the honor of yourselves
and to the security to future generations of the liberty that this
Republic will afford all men.

"Pick up the body of Metz, and I shall help you bury it. I leave the
body of Purdy for whomsoever may be inclined to care for it.

"Men of Wilkes-Barre, again I tell you, to-day you have been delivered
from serfdom. Act as men, not as brutes.

"Choose some one to be your leader and let him direct you until to each
of you is given the opportunity to vote for the laws that you may
desire.

"With blare of trumpet and with tap of drum
Barbaric nations pay to Mars his due,
When victory crowns their arms. To him they sue
For privilege to war, though Mercy's thumb
Bids them as victors, rather to be mum,
And show a noble spirit to the foe;
To vaunt not at their fellow-creature's woe:
O'er victory only doth the savage thrum!
They conquer twice who from excess abstain;
The gentle nation that is forced to war,
In triumph seeks to hide, and put afar
All vestiges of carnage, and restore
Peace in the land, that men may turn again
To worthy toil, as they were wont before.

"Labour is your heritage; return to it."

He ends in a tumult of enthusiasm.

The multitude has been led from one emotion to another with such
rapidity that they are fairly bewildered.

Two things only are clear in all minds. Trueman, the man who has become
their most faithful champion, assures them that now they are to be free;
that they are to be made the sharers in the wealth they create; he also
tells them to select a leader.

By a spontaneous decision Trueman is the name that comes to every lip.

"Trueman! Trueman! You are the man to lead us."

The cry "Trueman!" sweeps through the crowd. It rises in an acclaim the
like of which has never been heard before.

Men rush toward the orator and pick him off his feet. He is placed on
the shoulders of the stalwart miners whom his eloquence and logic has
won, and is borne in triumph at the head of the procession that goes to
bury Carl Metz.

The millionaire's corpse lies on the steps of his late mansion. Clinging
to it in the desperation of outraged womanhood, is Ethel. She had crept
from the house while the eloquence of Trueman's words held the mob
enraptured.

As Trueman is being borne in triumph down the steps his eyes rest on the
terrible picture presented by the dead magnate and his daughter. In an
instant the champion of