At that instant there appeared from behind one of the steel piles the figure of frenzy personified. This was not a striker. It was one of those weak, anæmic creatures who are intoxicated by participation in the lusts and passions of others and go mad over matters that do not concern them. He was a clerk in a dry goods store and taught a Sunday School class. It must be supposed that the cessation of firing made him think the strikers were weakening. He brandished a rifle, shrieking:
“Citizens! There are the men who wreck our homes, assault our women, take away our bread. Kill them! Kill them without mercy!” He was unnaturally articulate. “Cowards!” he cried. “Follow me!”
He levelled his rifle at the barges. The only man in sight was Thane, walking up the bank. The insane neurotic fired and Thane fell in a crumpled heap.
Several men together leaped at the assassin and disarmed him. He disappeared.
Thane was unconscious. There was no doctor, no ambulance. They took him to Pittsburgh in the launch.
John arrived the next morning. He looked once at Agnes and knew the worst.
Thane lived through that day and into the night. Shortly before he died he wished to be alone with John. They clasped hands and read each other in silence. Once the doctor opened the door and softly closed it again. Thane beckoned to John to bring his head nearer.
“Take ... Agnes,” he said. “That’s ... all ... everything.... Let her ... come back ... now.”
Only Agnes knew when he died. At daylight the doctor went in and she was still holding his form in her arms.