So the leaven of riot and panic began to work. Some bewailed the missing officers as martyrs; some cursed them as traitors; all mourned their absence as a fatal blow to their own safety. Irritated by the uncertainty, worn out by watching, fasting and fighting, the two parties readily passed from words to blows.
"They are true as steel!"
"They are false traitors!"
"You lie!"
"Hah! take that!"
Words like these, followed by the clatter of claws, and the sharp rasping of fangs were heard in every quarter. Luckily the third in command, Lieutenant Heady, was no milksop. He had seen riots and rebellions before and had quelled them. In stubbornness, cunning and ferocity he was a genuine Pixie. Fortune, it seemed, had made him chief, for the time, at least. And chief he would be, or cease to be at all.
He summoned a squad of the most courageous guards, and with them passed along the line of barricades. Quarrels were broken up with a strong hand, both parties being impartially beaten. The seditious were warned, the orderly praised, the doubters cheered, the timorous encouraged.
That answered for a little while.
Once more the riot began.
Heady and his patrol renewed their round. But as soon as a tumult was silenced in one quarter it arose in another. No sooner had the police squad reduced matters to quiet and moved to another point, than the riot broke out afresh behind them. Finally it gathered such headway that the Lieutenant was compelled to retire. The ill feelings which the rioters had vented upon one another were turned against him. The combatants united to wreak a common vengeance upon Heady.