Even as he spoke, the two regiments formed, stiffened, fixed bayonets, and moved forward, as if they were machines rather than two thousand men.
“Brethren,” yelled Podds, “the foot of the tyrant is on us. Rise. Rise in your might.” Then Podds turned to find the rigid line of bayonets close upon him. He gave a spring, and grappled with Peter, throwing his arms about Peter’s neck. Peter caught him by the throat with his free arm.
“Don’t push me off,” shrieked Podds in his ear, “it’s coming,” and he clung with desperate energy to Peter.
Peter gave a twist with his arm. He felt the tight clasp relax, and the whole figure shudder. He braced his arm for a push, intending to send Podds flying across the street.
But suddenly there was a flash, as of lightning. Then a crash. Then the earth shook, cobble-stones, railroad tracks, anarchists, and soldiers, rose in the air, leaving a great chasm in crowd and street. Into that chasm a moment later, stones, rails, anarchists, and soldiers fell, leaving nothing but a thick cloud of overhanging dust. Underneath that great dun pall lay soldier and anarchist, side by side, at last at peace. The one died for his duty, the other died for his idea. The world was none the better, but went on unchanged.
CHAPTER LVII
HAPPINESS
The evening on which Peter had left Grey-Court, Leonore had been moved “for sundry reasons” to go to her piano and sing an English ballad entitled “Happiness.” She had sung it several times, and with gusto.
The next morning she read the political part of the papers. “I don’t see anything to have taken him back,” she said “but I am really glad, for he was getting hard to manage. I couldn’t send him away, but now I hope he’ll stay there.” Then Leonore fluttered all day, in the true Newport style, with no apparent thought of her “friend.”
But something at a dinner that evening interested her.