It continued unabated for a full five minutes. It sagged and sank. Again it mounted. Then it paused expectant. It was for all the world like a triumph at the opera, when a singer only bows and an encore is demanded. It recommenced. This time there was a note of anger.
The dead man grinned down at the applauding mob. He gave no sign to these men, prepared to die for him. Slowly it seemed to dawn on them that he did not care—that he had never cared for their wounds and hunger; that for men of his sort they were only beasts; that it made no difference whether they were conquered or victorious; he would sit there as all the kings and emperors before him, secure and immobile, sneering at their sacrifices and coining their sufferings into profit.
They found contempt in his vacant stare; cruelty in his marble hands that clutched the scepter. Gesticulating and cursing, they hurled reproaches at him. They trampled the officers who tried to quell them. Shots were exchanged. Pandemonium was commencing.
Hindwood consulted his watch. It lacked but a few minutes till two o'clock. If he could hold the garrison in confusion, Varensky would have time to seize his chance.
He turned to the Captain behind the curtain where they watched. “What is it they want?”
“It was some acknowledgment at first; then a speech; now it's bread. Can't you hear them, 'Bread! Bread! Or we do not march.'”
At that moment the hammering on the outer door re-started. Hindwood seized the Captain's arm. “You must speak to them; they wouldn't understand me. You're in uniform. There's Santa. If you don't all is lost.”