§10. Hell belched its flames: a thunder-clap, a thunder-cloud knifed by red flashes of lightning.
Luke felt his head bashed against the wall of the factory. He was choking in a cloud of smoke. He could see nothing, but once he thought he heard the crack of other shots from somewhere above.
Then he felt his knees clutched. He felt a pawing at his elbow; and presently he heard the chattering voice of Facciolati screaming against his cheek:
"Why in Hell did you do that? How in Hell did you dare?—Don't you know what you might have done? Who's in command here?"
"Shut up," bellowed Luke, "or I'll show you who's in command." He tried vainly to see through the smoke. "Take your hands off me!"
It was as if he were in the crater of an erupting volcano. The reverberation split his head, and through it came shrieks, groans, curses, and then, as the smoke slowly lifted, the pound of two thousand feet on the paving-stones, while, with the Red Flag sagging to and fro like a wounded eagle above it, the mob fled pell-mell up the street.
But the Captain had not heeded Luke's warning.
"Now they'll be back!" he was wailing. "We'll all be goners now. Why did you give that order? Why didn't you let me change it?—I'd instructed the men to fire over their heads—An' you didn't let me change it—An' of course they did fire over their heads—an' nobody's hurt—Do you know what that means? They'll be back and kill all of us!"
It was impossible for Luke to believe. Then, not fear, but the rage of thwarted blood-lust sent out his clawing hands.
"You did that?"