Father Temple and his unknown guide paused beside a stretcher. Two men wearing the Red Cross badge bent over it.
"Stand back; here is a priest."
Both rose, and pointed to the sheet covering a motionless figure.
"Too late. He is dead."
Then one added, as he touched Father Temple's sleeve:
"You might be of use over yonder, where a woman is badly hurt. They are waiting for an ambulance to move her."
When Max Harlberg ordered the retreat of the strikers and jumped from the roof of the car to the pavement, he caught sight of a huddled mass on the step near the motor controller, and simultaneously he and Mr. Cathcart approached the spot.
Mrs. Dane had sunk down in a sitting posture on the step, and her head rested against the shattered edge of the dashboard, her face tilted skyward, where two stars blinked feebly through thinning snow flakes. Blood dripped from the right shoulder, and behind one ear a red stream dyed her golden braids, but the blue eyes were open, and her limp hands lay in the crimson pool deepening in her lap, where the waterproof cloak held it.
"My God, it is my typewriter! Hazleton, Hazleton! Telephone for an ambulance. Hurry! I knew she was mixed up in this deviltry, but didn't think she would actually come to the front and take a hand."
"She did not. She came here hunting Bowen, whose family was burned out to-night, and she had taken some of them to her room. His wife has spasms when she is worried, and was screaming for him, so Mrs. Dane was begging him to go back with her. She wanted a peaceable strike—urged us not to begin any fight—and she snatched a pistol out of my hand. Can't you speak to me, Mrs. Dane? Where are you hurt worst?"