A man stepped aside from his gun, and pointed down at the crowd on Westminster Bridge.
“This is the bridge blown up by Hartmann and Schwartz ten years ago. These vermin seem to have liked it, don’t they?”
I turned away in disgust. What a mockery it was! The populace thought they were applauding an inventor, and they cheered a ruthless destroyer! Terrible captain, Morituri te salutant. But the hour had come—the clock-tower rose only twenty yards from us.
Suddenly a gong sounded ominously. It was the signal. The four quick-firing guns vomited flame simultaneously, and ere the crash had died away, a blood-red flag was to be seen fluttering at the stern. The crew yelled with excitement, as well they might, for the coup was evilly romantic. On its broad fluttering bosom the flag bore five ominous words—words which carried a terrible commentary with them—
THUS RETURNS HARTMANN THE ANARCHIST.
It was a shock never to be forgotten. The cheering ceased in an instant, and in its place curses and howls rose up from the struggling mob. Even the sightseers on the roofs shook their fists at the Attila.
“Ah, vermin!” yelled one of the crew, “you will howl louder soon.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when the Attila was sharply propelled onwards, the force being such as to cause me to grasp the railing to save myself from falling. The object of this manœuvre was evident. It was necessary to rise, now that we were recognized, and active operations were to commence. After a series of brilliant wheels the Attila climbed high above the clock-tower and commenced to cruise about in large circles.
The gong sounded once more. Once more the quick-firing guns vomited flame, and this time the charge was not blank. And mingling with their almost continuous roar, there now came a crash of appalling magnitude, shaking the very recesses of one’s brain. Another and another followed, till the air seemed to beat in waves upon us, and our ears became veritable torture-chambers. Then followed a rattle like that of a landslip. I looked over, to start back with a shriek. Horror of horrors, the great tower had fallen on the crowd, bruising into jelly a legion of buried wretches, and beating into ruins the whole mass of buildings opposite. Every outlet from the neighbourhood was being furiously fought for, hordes of screaming, shrieking madmen were falling, crushing and stamping their victims into heaps, and with the growth of each writhing heap the ghastly confusion grew also. Of the Houses of Parliament pinnacles were collapsing and walls were being riven asunder as the shells burst within them.
