As he emerged upon the street, he saw the circle of light empty of the human mass that had lately swirled there. A resounding cacophony from the darkness, and dimly perceived objects moving a hundred yards and more away, told him that the rioters had withdrawn to the upturned coal wagon. At the moment of understanding this, he heard a rending staccato noise.
The frightened Facciolati heard it, too. He was standing on the pavement by the door and had drawn up his men in a closer column before him. His bared sword was in his right hand.
"What's that?" asked Luke.
"It's the tongue of that coal wagon," gasped the Captain, "they're rippin' it off."
"What? For a battering-ram? For this door?"
The Italian nodded.
"Yes. I heard someone yell for them to do it. Then they all ran over there."
A terrible stillness fell. Behind the curtain of the night, the mob only hummed and shuffled its feet.
"Well?" asked Luke.
His eyes pierced Facciolati's. His voice was pregnant with meaning.