The captain of the district brushed rudely past and sprang into his automobile. He waved his hand to his chauffeur. His gesture was mistaken by a pair of keen restless eyes for a command to his reserves to disperse the crowd.
A pale, shabby young fellow leaped past the line of police into the open space and rushed straight for the reserves. His long thin arm was lifted high in the air clutching a black thing with a lighted fuse sparkling from its crest.
A murmur rippled the crowd, the police stood still and stared, and the next moment the bomb exploded in the boy's hand and his body lay on the stones a mangled heap of torn flesh and blood-soaked rags.
The police charged the crowd and clubbed them without mercy. The people fled in confusion in every direction, and in five minutes the Square was cleared.
Stuart had hurried Nan to her car, and rushed back to the scene of the tragedy. He readily passed the lines of the police, who recognized him as the district attorney.
The doctor reached the spot and Harriet was holding the dying boy's head in her lap.
Stuart bent over her curiously and slowly asked:
"You were not afraid to rush up here with your father and take that poor mangled thing in your arms?"
"Of course not," she replied simply. "Papa says he's dying—nothing can be done for him. They've sent for an ambulance."
The doctor stood staring at the dying boy and a tear had slowly gathered in his kindly eye.