“The time has come for you to prove by your works your declared faith in the righteousness of the proletarian movement.”
“What is it that you wish me to do?”
The question was repeated, perhaps a little more firmly, a little more distinctly than before, and it now brought a definite answer.
“We wish you to withdraw your troops from the plaza. The sight of them excites and angers my followers. If they remain here I shall not be responsible for the consequences.”
“I understand.”
Lieutenant McCormack turned and faced his company. It was apparent that he was about to yield to the demand of the captains of the mob and give such orders to his company as would lead to its immediate withdrawal. Kranich and Gabriel looked at each other and smiled with satisfaction. The men in the ranks grew sick at heart. Brownell clutched the butt of his pistol in sheer desperation. Barriscale snatched his rifle up from the pavement and started once more to leave the ranks, but was checked by the command that now issued from the lips of the first lieutenant.
“Fix bayonet!”
The first sergeant dropped back into his place. Brownell’s heart leaped in his breast. The Guardsmen caught their breaths and wondered and were happy.
But there was no delay in the execution of the order. The men came to “parade rest” and drew their bayonets from their scabbards. The click sounded sharp and ominous as the springs caught on the muzzles of the rifle barrels. Then, with shining blades fixed, the “order arms” was promptly resumed.